


Ashes, Ashes (We All Fall Down)

by HolidayFeartree



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King, Original Work
Genre: Bob Gray - Freeform, Clowns, Dark Fantasy, Deadlights (IT), Deities, Demons, Derry, Derry is Terrible, Eldritch, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, F/M, Horror, IT - Freeform, IT 2017 - Freeform, Mashup, Monster Romance, Monster sex, Mythology - Freeform, Mythology References, Original Character(s), Original work - Freeform, Pagan Gods, Pennywise (IT) in Love, Possessive Pennywise (IT), Robert "Bob" Gray - Freeform, Scary Clowns, Science Fiction, Sex, Space Flight, Stephen King's IT - Freeform, Stephen King's IT References, Trans Female Character, Work In Progress, Xenomorphs (Alien), pennywise - Freeform, pennywise romance, robert gray - Freeform, skarsgard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:03:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 54,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolidayFeartree/pseuds/HolidayFeartree
Summary: There's a world called the "Nexus" where humans and fictional villains work together to rescue the antagonists from modern horror stories and ancient mythos. These monsters have become trapped within their own repeated narratives. It is up to Nuna Shine, a struggling Nexus operative, to liberate them and prove her merit. In that pursuit, Nuna lands herself face to face with Pennywise the Dancing Clown, who challenges her to question her reality. After meeting the eldritch entity, IT encourages Nuna to begin a journey in an attempt to discover a coverup about herself...





	1. Prologue - Know Your Place

_This can't begin without an explanation up front. This can't be told through a diary, a memory, a vision, or a dream. I cannot put this reality into poetry. I cannot sing a song, demonstrate a dance, or perform a painting. It will simply have to be words. **My** words. And for all of this to make sense... there will have to be trust. **Your** trust, dear Reader. If you don't trust me, then this will not work._

_If you don't trust me, then stop reading._

_Are we ready? Let us begin..._

_There is a place, and it is nowhere near whatever place you now find yourself. **Look around**. Where are you? What is beside you? Out the window? In the road? Under the trees? **Your** place is not this place. Your place is **your** place and it is closer to you. But this place? This place is far. Incomprehensibly **far**. The kicker is, those who dwell in this place know everything about your world. They know everything about your books, your cinema, your stories, and your legends. They know of every folk tale, every comic book, every soap opera, every Greek, Roman, Chinese (and so on...) myth._

_They watch and listen._

_They document and record._

_They **police**._

_You don't realize it, but they do. Dear Reader, I cannot provide evidence of this truth. As stated earlier, you must simply trust me._

_This place is called **Nexus**. It's not a very creative name. Quite on the nose, actually. But it is what it **says** it is – for it is the central point of ...all. Floating out there, on a planet with trees and grass and water and doves and squirrels and trash cans and spoons and buildings.... Nexus is similar to your world in those respects._

_It even has humans._

_Yes, humans just like you. Just like your dad. Just like your boss. Just like your pizza delivery driver, and your great aunt Jeannie, and your neighbors with the barking dog, and that coworker who complains every single day._

_Nexus is much smaller than your world. Call it a moon or a planetoid or – simply – a much smaller place. That will do. It's a **hub** , not a sprawling earth. Its size pales in comparison to **your** planet, dear Reader._

_On the Nexus, there are humans. There are humans and there are monsters. They work together. These monsters are **not** their monsters. These monsters are **your** monsters._

_Do you understand?_

_**Let us repeat:** On the Nexus, there are humans. On the Nexus, there are monsters. They are your monsters... **and they work together.**_

_\- Holiday Feartree_


	2. The Three

 

Hurrying, Nuna searched the main floor, unable to track down her immediate supervisor. She'd been _summoned_ , but couldn't locate him. Nuna checked his office, the door to which was left open, revealing a desk piled high with paperwork and manila file folders spilling their contents to the cheap tile floor. He'd obviously received his summons and dashed out of there for a last minute meeting with... _the_ _three_.

Before walking away, Nuna's eyes glanced over her supervisor's name engraved on an aging brassy plaque centered upon the worn surface of the door: _N. Bates_. Mister Bates wasn't exactly a monster, not like two out of _the three,_ but he was from the Blue Planet, just as they were. Anything that came – _no_. Can't think of them as _things._ Beast, apparition, or man, they were _Rescues,_ with a capital _R_. Correction: **Anyone** _who_ came from the Blue Planet was a Rescue, and often times a recruit. Mister Bates was one of those Rescues. He had been so for a long, long time. He was, after all, Nuna's superior.

Mister Bates worked at the Nexus Entity Rescue Facility (NERF) for much longer than Nuna, who had only begun her career at the start of last year. Nuna had never been to the Blue Planet until she was hired on for the job. Her higher ups ( _the three_ ) had been hesitant to give her the tougher cases, ergo she spent the last twelve months rescuing passive humanoid entities, generally regarded as “monsters” but, on the whole, about as formidable as a golden retriever wearing a spiked collar. They were, most often, children.

Getting her feet wet, Nuna was given the younger Rescues. Her first case, for example, had been the girl who had fallen into the well. The pasty one with the ebony hair that fell to the ground like a big, wiggy curtain. That mop on her top hid the rightful vengeance in her eyes. _Samara Morgan_. That was the name on the case file. She was _too_ young and far too traumatized to be given employment at this stage. And so, Samara was sent to the Nexus Children's Home to join the other fledgling Rescues. Luck was in her favor that she was mostly humanoid, just like the demonic child Regan MacNeil, who also resided in that same institution. For the record, NCH doubled as a home _and_ a school. Humanoids were either sent to the Children's Home, offered employment and housing, or placed in an assisted living community (jokingly referred to as _Fiddler's Green_ ) if their experiences left them too far gone to take proper care of themselves.

Others had been sent to The Acreage. It was like a farm, but not really a farm, per say. It was a safe place for the less humanoid (non-humanoid?) Rescues to dwell. Some had strict habitat requirements. For all intents and purposes, the Creature from the Black Lagoon required... a black lagoon. The Acreage could provide, and thus its purpose had been defined. That all being said, if a Rescue had the magical capability to make itself appear more humanoid, then it had every right to apply for a job and living quarters within the heart of the Nexus community.

The Blue Planet was a dangerous place for Rescues. Earthfolk did not regard these creatures as real, but they _were_. It is common knowledge that Earthfolk can only perceive a limited spectrum of dimensions, therefore they cannot detect the tangible reality (REALITY!) of their horrific conjurations. So many of the Rescues had been imagined up from the depths of the human mind simply to be mutilated or destroyed; to be made an example of. _“We need a symbol of evil. A thing to fight, to kill, to conquer. A cautionary tale for our children. A bad thing to scare the locals. A malevolent thing to pressure the good deeds of the many. A thing of witchery and nefariousness to set Heroes apart from Villains.”_ That was, and still is, their line of thinking. It works well for the Earthfolk, but it pays little favor to the Rescues. In the end, most of them are butchered. And when their stories are retold, they're resurrected and butchered again. After observing this for almost a century, that line between good and evil began to blur. (For Nexusfolk, that is...)

Admittedly, in most cases, yes, the Rescues are indeed malevolent. They are evil and aggressive and powerful. But, unbeknownst to the Earthfolk, they are not lost causes. _Who_ created them to behave in such ways? _Earthfolk_. Nexusfolk and Rescues, alike, knew what had to be done. And thus... NERF was established. They've been working together for some time, with _little_ issue.

 **History lesson:** The very first Rescue on record was... an accident. A Nexusling by the name of Bizdil Bodaway was a researcher who had been monitoring the activity of the Blue Planet for approximately ten months.

 **Sidenote:** Nexus, as long as it could recall, always had the means by which to monitor the Blue Planet. As rumor had it, the first humans who arrived to the hub had actually _come_ from the Blue Planet, bringing with them the foundation of their “sky technology.” (That expression is so _“cave man”_ but for some reason Nexusfolk use it to describe their earlier innovations!) But this is a _highly_ _debated_ rumor. Controversial, to be frank. If ever you are on Nexus, _do not_ bring it up. At least, not if you want polite conversation.

Back to the history lesson...

Bizdil had discovered a tear in the fabric that separated the Earthfolk from their – what is commonly referred to as – _Narration Invasion_. Such a fancy phrase for _diarrhea of the mind_. Earthfolk had stories for everything. And they had stories told through every medium! Oral, drawn, written, performed, photographed, televised, and – their favorite – REALITY. Earthfolk are historically _obsessed_ with facsimiles of reality. And most of their reality (even snippets of their “history”) has been... lies. Stories. Narration Invasion. But this phenomenon manifested over the centuries of human existence, materializing in true form on the other side of that cosmic fabric (it's called _the Skein_ ) which separated the Earthfolk from a dimension that possessed the scientific properties capable of transcribing stories and myth into (favorite Earthfolk pastime) REALITY. Organic reality - not convoluted, Blue Planet lies.

Bizdil realized that these creatures were more _at harm_ than they were capable of _harming_ the likes of others. Perhaps he was a bleeding heart, but the man proposed compelling arguments. And with those arguments, he wrote up a hefty report, the page count totaling to something asinine like twelve hundred – much to the chagrin of his colleagues who had to read it. Nevertheless, they thumbed through every meticulous word and concluded there _was_ a valid hypothesis about this tear in the Skein which collected and materialized a majority of Earthfolks' “panic adventures” (a phrase later changed to “horror stories” for obvious reasons).

Within time, this same team of researchers were given the green light to venture to the tear beyond the Skein of the Blue Planet and conduct field observations. And it was born from this scientific endeavor that the first Rescue was brought back to the Nexus: a monster by the name of _Humbaba_.

Unfortunately, Humbaba killed Bizdil Bodaway and his entire research team by the time they re-entered the hub. This formidable guardian of the Cedar Forest, raised by the Earthfolks' Sun, itself, managed to chew off three of the researchers' heads and disembowel Bizdil with one swipe of its massive claws. By the time the awaiting Nexus team was able to pry open the doors of Bodaway's carrier craft, Humbaba had regurgitated – and subsequently choked to death – on two of the three scientists' heads, one of which ended up twisted into the knotted intestines that wove the very construct of the monster's face.

“Let us learn from our mistakes...” was what the _then_ Director (the Director is like the President, but far less terrifying than the ones found on the Blue Planet) solemnly concluded in her hubwide High Office address. And in due time – precisely ninety two years later – NERF became a thriving cause.

Nuna checked her watch. The meeting with _the three_ had already begun. She hurried.

 

* * *

 

Mister Bates shifted awkwardly in his seat, wondering where Nuna had been. On the other side of the long, black, marble-laden table sat three figures. When Norman Bates had first arrived to NERF fifteen years back, it took him some time to grow familiar with these _three_. In fact, he was unfamiliar with so much, because so much of _this_ had never existed in that little bubble he called his world just beyond the Skein.

Where he was from... he was like a god. That bubble was his realm. Until it _wasn't_. Until he was imprisoned, then forgotten. Then, out of nowhere, Norman was dredged back up from the depths of his incarceration, dusted off, and forced to relive his own traumatic and bloody tale once more. Then he was imprisoned again. And again. And so it repeated itself, over and over. Every re-read, every re-telling, every sequel and revision – it was like a recurrent nightmare for this tortured man.

But then _they_ came. The operatives from NERF. And now, here he was, organizing operatives, himself. Bates' psychopathic urges had long since calmed themselves in this place – this _hub_. He realized none of his past was true, in spite of how real it had always felt. No motel. No Mother. Such a jarring reality to face. Coming to terms with such a realization took years of psychotherapy. _Breakthroughs_ , indeed. Mister Bates broke through some kind of mind-wall, landing in a pool of light that cast itself upon him like a sobering waterfall. All metaphorically speaking, of course. The bulk of this hit him in a rather profound manner after so many sessions with the _new_ _hire_ , Dr. Jessie Fallengod, a Nexusling that was, for lack of a better word, Bates' one and only fucking _savior_. So many shrinks before her had failed him. 

“Where is your operative, Mister Bates?” asked one of the three. His voice was breathy and somewhat ambiguous in gender. This was the one whom had nails hammered into his head. They were hammered along a grid constructed all around his naked, pallid skull. A _cenobite_ was the correct word for his kind. And this one went by the name _Pinhead_. In spite of his terrifying appearance, Pinhead proved to be an excellent superior to Mister Bates. He was efficient, direct, even compassionate for the Rescues – but he maintained a balanced reservation in his compassion, so as to not allow it to interfere with his decision making.

Pinhead should have been sent to The Acreage, along with the rest of his kind. They were there, living in a place that resembled the hellish void to which they were accustomed. He was not. His knowledge and experience were too precious to waste. NERF needed all the help it could get to drive its cause. This Rescue, _this_ cenobite, proved to be a valuable resource. There was no question that he should become one of _the three._

“I'm certain Ms. Shine is on her way,” Bates reassured Pinhead.

The cenobite nodded.

The other two sat quietly, thumbing through their paperwork. Dr. Lecter, a Rescue every bit as human as Mister Bates, gently smiled from across the black table. “I'm certain she will be,” he agreed. His refined and calming tone of voice settled Bates' nerves. Dr. Lecter could have been assigned to be Bates' psychotherapist, but his arrival to the Nexus coincided with Bates' own. Hannibal was in need of his own deprogramming at the time, thus his psychoanalytic services were placed on hold until further notice. After Dr. Lecter had been integrated into _the three_ , he was frequently assigned to human Rescues who suffered from violent psychopathy. Mister Bates, as much as he wished he could counsel those who have suffered similarly, had no background in such services, himself. He only excelled in hospitality and management, nevermind his talented knack for having stabbed a woman in the shower again and again, per every retelling of the horrific event.

The room was silent aside from a collective, and wholly _repetitive,_ sound that hissed down from the towering halo of the third of _the three._ The third figure across the black table did not sit in a chair, because there was no chair that could fit the contour of her ...unique... anatomy. She, more so than the cenobite, should have gone to The Acreage upon her arrival. But, the present Director and his council decided that this particular Rescue is one of the oldest, most widely recognized, horror creatures of myth. And with the council's support, she, the gorgon Medusa, ultimately became the spokeswoman for Rescues who _are_ sent to The Acreage.

She knew the plight of non-humanoid monsters, and even more so the callous bigotry they suffered at the hands of protagonists and _heroes_ alike. The non-humanoids were regarded as little more than animals, and treated much worse than such by their storytellers – their captors. Hunted, maimed, tortured, killed. Non-humanoid Rescues needed the most assistance from operatives, for many were helpless, even voiceless. _“Earthfolk tell more forgiving tales about the sins of their own pigs before they'd do the same for us,”_ a historical quote from the gorgon at a rally she'd organized just outside The Acreage.

Medusa nodded to Mister Bates, who was – even upon his arrival to the Nexus – soberly aware of who _she_ had been, for her stories were ancient. As she nodded, the cloth of the black, silken blindfold bound across her treacherous eyes fell forward, sweeping a tail of loose threads along the smooth naked skin of her green neck. Her firm breasts heaved with every reptilian breath. In sync with each inhale the snakes dancing from her cranium panted hisses at anything that should invade the gorgon's personal space.

Mister Bates did not outright fear Medusa, but if he had to unpack every psychological hiccup he had in regard to women, Norman most assuredly tread with the utmost caution around the macabre she-serpent.

“I apologize,” said a voice, entering the conference room. It was Nuna. She hustled in and took her seat, glancing to Mister Bates for reassurance that her tardiness did not pose an insult to _the three_. Norman gave a validating nod, then gestured that the two of them were ready for the proceeding to begin.

 


	3. Nuna Shine

Nuna Shine was a younger woman not quite into her 30's, but no longer enjoying the energy of her early 20's. She was a child of Nexus, but had she been born on the Blue Planet, she would have easily passed for what Earthfolk refer to as southern European. Nuna was an olive skinned, green eyed woman with wavy brown hair. And for as long as she could recall, she wanted to become a NERF operative. Training was, of course, intense. But by the time she was released onto the force, fully licensed, and given the well earned Medallion of EL (Entity Liberation)... _the three_ were reluctant to assign her anything more formidable than an innocent lost soul, a tormented child creature, or a _very_ humanized, entirely misunderstood, glittering vampire.

_The three_ weren't being malicious – their decisions had merit. Nuna did not excel in her training, and, too often, she panicked under duress. The wrong protocol was often followed. The right protocol was often skipped entirely. Simulation missions often failed, and even (simulated) casualties were _often_ a result. It wasn't good. Nuna barely passed her training. She worked harder than any other trainee, but in spite of her heart being in the right place, her skills were entirely _misplaced_.

In fact, within Nuna's first year of employment, she'd been sent back for additional training, under the supervision of a trained psychiatrist. Her instructor was none other than Dr. Jessie Fallengod, the very professional who had counseled Mister Bates. His _savior._

“What will you do,” asked Fallengod, “when faced with an entity that has an ML* above 3?”

* **Sidenote:** Dear Reader, ML stands for _Menace Level_ – the very scale by which operatives rate the threat, or challenge, of the entity to be rescued. An ML of 1 or 2 would include the Rescues that Nuna had so frequently been assigned; Ghost children, shiny vampires, and the like. An ML between 3 and 7 would include people such as Mister Bates and Dr. Lecter. Pinhead, himself, had an ML of 8, and Medusa's ML was, _without_ question, recorded as a 10. Humbaba had never been given an ML due to the chaotic nature of its arrival, but many historians and researchers speculate Humbaba's ML to be somewhere around a 15. _However_ , on any given night down at the local pub _(aptly named_ _ **Just Jack's**_ _because the owner was none other than Spring-heeled Jack, himself – his ML was a 6...)_ a drunken debate over Humbaba's ML would eventually erupt, resulting in a handful of disorderly patrons dragging themselves home that night with bloody noses and broken teeth. _(Cue Spring-heeled Jack spending the remainder of the evening cleaning up broken glass, muttering curses under his breath.)_ Whomever thought Nexus was without its own special brand of controversy was living under a well fortified rock.

“I don't know,” shrugged Nuna. “If I can't get the hands on experience I need, then I'm screwed.” She paused. “ _Right_?”

Fallengod nodded, but raised her index finger in a _let's not be too hasty_ sort of way. “Back when I was male bodied,” she began, “I worried that my lack of _hands on_ experience as a woman would hinder my ability to fully transition.” She crossed her arms and grinned. “It didn't. Know why?”

“Because you always _felt_ like a woman?” Nuna guessed. She wasn't sure what this had to do with her training...

“That,” nodded Fallengod, “and the fact that I can exercise my perspective. I did not know what it was like to be female bodied until I would be fully integrated _into_ one. But the mind is a very powerful simulation tool.” She tapped Nuna on the head, like an old school marm. “ _Use_ it.”

“So what should I simulate? An encounter with a more menacing creature?”

“Precisely.” Fallengod moved her chair closer to Nuna's, leaned forward, and the two locked eyes. “Let's do it together. Imagine I am a potential Rescue with an ML of 5.”

“That's too high...”

Fallengod sighed. “Very well. An ML of 4...”

“Okay,” began Nuna, “I have to deescalate, first of all.”

“Right...”

“Then,” continued Nuna, “I have to persuade the Rescue that their world isn't real. Talk them down. Explain to them that they'll be safer coming with me.”

Fallengod nodded. “You've memorized the books. But what happens if the Rescue is aggressive?”

Nuna's brow scrunched. “If it's an ML above a 3, then I would not be doing a _solo_ mission. I'd be assigned a team of armed operatives. I would rely on their help to subdue.” Nuna paused and nodded with intensity, “ _Never_ kill – only _subdue_.” Such was the operative mantra.

Fallengod pursed her lips, then heaved a dissatisfied sigh.

“What?” snapped Nuna. “ _That's_ protocol.”

“Fuck protocol,” Fallengod shook her head. “Your operatives aren't around. Who knows why? Detained. Dead. Doesn't matter. _What_ do you do?”

Nuna blinked, her mouth bounced open, then shut, then repeated the pattern. She wanted to announce the answer, but had been unable to do so. “I – I _don't_ know...” Clenching her teeth, Nuna balled a fist against the top of her knee, looking down at her own lap.

“It's alright,” Fallengod reassured. “I didn't want you to think you _knew_ right off the bat. How could you? You're still new.”

Nuna looked up. “So...” she said, “...what _do_ I do?”

Fallengod winked. “Give the Rescue a startle.”

“A _startle_? Like... scare them?”

“Not _scare_ , exactly. Kick them in their complacency. Nuna, they think their world is real. They think the script that runs their day to day activities is their _life_. Show them how fake it is. Tear down those walls. _Jar_ them.”

“That isn't what we were taught...”

Fallengod shook her head. “The _goal_ is to get the Rescue onto the carrier craft peacefully. We're dealing with beasts and creatures. Monsters, Nuna. These things are _monsters_.”

“We cannot call them things, they're considered people–”

“They're _things_ , Nuna. Manifestations of Earthfolk. Most of them – not all, but _most –_ are the very embodiment of evil. Even if they're human – they're killers. And when they _aren't_ human, well, they could be just about any breed of horror. You could be killed if you don't follow your objectives. Objective one: a _peaceful_ transition onto the carrier craft. Convince them they have no reason to stay inside their bubble. _Communicate_ with them, sure. But if that fails... you _will_ need to enact stronger measures.”

“Burst their bubble...”

Fallengod nodded. “Exactly.”

 

* * *

 

Dr. Lecter slid two case files across the black marble table. “We're sending Bates on a team mission to procure a Rescue of utmost importance. This one is particularly dangerous, Bates, so we prefer that you spearhead it, yourself. We have operatives already selected from your senior staff. They'll be waiting down in the docking bay.” Lecter's eyes darkened, in almost a hungry sort of way. “Please do not discuss the details of this mission with anyone aside from the operatives on your team. Board the craft, then discuss mission details once departure has been secured.”

Nuna bit her lower lip. She glanced at the file folder in front of her, silently noting her name scrawled in red ink across its center. Placing her hand, palm down, on the folder, she muttered, “Does my file contain the same mission as assigned to Bates?”

“No,” interjected the cenobite. His response sharply echoed from the walls, cutting into Nuna like a razor. “You have your own mission. Solo, as usual. There is a group of lower tier Rescues in need of aid. You would be capable of handling it.”

Nuna shifted in her seat. “Isn't it time I face a stronger challenge?” she pressed.

_The three_ remained silent. Sweat formed around Nuna's neck. She began to feel uncomfortable.

“Yes.” Mister Bates broke the silence. “I've wondered when Nuna will be given team missions. I'm confident she's ready.”

Dr. Lecter leaned forward, folding his hands across the shiny, black surface of the table. “I understand,” he smiled politely. Dr. Lecter was always polite, even as he was about to strike you down. “Nuna has done satisfactory work with her assignments over the last year. However, the assignment you've been given, Bates – it is not suitable for new recruits. We would only task senior staff with something as challenging as this.” Dr. Lecter flashed an expression of humble apology Nuna's way. Always so polite.

Nuna opened her mouth. “But–”

“–Dismissed.” Medusa cut her off. Though Nuna couldn't see the gorgon's eyes – and had no desire to – she could tell, even with that blindfold covering their deadly gaze, they had locked onto her like two deadly snipers, ready to fire.

With a curt nod, Nuna stood and exited the conference room.

 

* * *

 

“ _Ch_ _ér_ _ie_ ,” a silky voice called as a hand gently knocked on Nuna's office door. Her door wasn't entirely closed. It'd been open just a crack, but only just enough to still require a knock. “You look absolutely glum.”

Lestat de Lioncourt. A vampire – one of dozens that worked as operatives. Many of the vampires had become more man than beast due a rise in popularity of prominent characters such as... well... _Lioncourt_ , himself. The creatures assimilated easily into a Nexus lifestyle. They made damn good operatives too. No one moved quite like a vampire in a heated confrontation.

Nuna waved him in.

“Ch _ér_ ie,” Lestat repeated as he sat in the chair adjacent to her desk. “What troubles you?”

Nuna lifted the case file which Dr. Lecter had earlier slid her way. Irritably gesturing with it in the air, she replied, “Same shit, different day.” She dropped the file to her desk. _Fwap!_

Lestat lifted the folder and thumbed through it. “Oof...” he shook his head. “ _More_ ghost children?”

Nuna shrugged. “Is that what it is? I haven't had the stomach to read through it yet.”

“Yes,” nodded the vampire. “Hill House, it seems. Ever hear of it?”

Nuna leaned her chin into her hand and dejectedly shook her head. “Can't say that I have...” she mumbled.

“How many ghost children do you think there _are_ beyond that Skein? Hundreds? Thousands? What is the Blue Planet's obsession with dead children haunting about?” Lestat tossed his head back and chuckled playfully as he withdrew a page from the file folder. The numbers had caught his eye. “Ahh..” he said. “Are these your destination coordinates to be programmed into the carrier craft?”

Nuna leaned over and checked. “Yep,” she frowned.

“I can do that for you,” the vampire nodded with a grin. That was his one job, after all. Lestat didn't venture on away missions, and he made that _quite clear_ from the get go. The undead aristocrat, however, had a talent for working in Operations. He caught onto NERF's technology with exceptional lack of difficulty. After a decade on the job, he was fairly close to running the department.

Lestat stood, still holding the slip of paper between two lavishly gloved fingers. “So... do I have an answer to my earlier question?”

Nuna looked up from her desk. “What?” It dawned on her. She remembered now. He had asked her some days ago. “ _Oh_...”

“Dinner...?” Lestat's piercing blue eyes glittered as he smiled down at the young operative.

Nuna slowly shook her head. “I... I really don't think that's a good idea _right_ now.”

The vampire's brow dropped as he crossed his arms. The slip of paper with the coordinates crinkled beneath the decadent sleeve of his royal blue frock coat. “And why is _that_?” His tone no longer sounded as smooth as it had when he'd arrived. Now it was sharp and derisive, like that of a bitterly disappointed brat.

“I'm new to the force,” explained Nuna. “It wouldn't look good for me to be going on dates with the assistant chief of Operations.” She cleared her throat, staring up at Lestat, searching his hardened expression for a hint of understanding. “It'd look like I'm trying to … _date..._ my way up the food chain.”

Lestat scoffed and shook his head. “I am _indeed_ at the top of the food chain, even without this job.” He paused with a huff, then chuckled sourly. “ _Your_ loss. Let me know should you _ever_ change your mind. I care not.” He hastily made his way toward the door.

“Now, wait a minute!” called Nuna, standing to her feet.

Ignoring her, the vampire hurried out. He absolutely could not appear a lingerer – for that would've seemed _desperate._ For a man of his status to seem desperate, well, such a thing _revolted_ Lestat. Although, the truth was that maybe he _was_ a little desperate. Oh, he'd _never_ admit to it, though. Lioncourt had been away from his old life for a long time now. And in all that time, he discovered that this _Nexus_ was a lonely place for such a passionate soul as he.

He missed Paris.

He missed Louis.

He missed his old, fictitious life.

Before Lestat could take a moment to slow his pace as he swiftly wound his way around the bends of the sterile, fluorescent-lit halls, the foppish vampire slammed right into Mister Bates! Bates had _also_ been hurrying along at a fervent pace – though not as _blurry_ and as quick as a vampire. Nevertheless, there was a burst of file papers between the two of them, falling about their feet like large, rectangular snowflakes. Both men exchanged apologies and dropped to their knees, grabbing at scattered sheets which were now upside down and out of order. Lestat reached across the cheap tile, groping for a paper he spied with coordinates – the one he assumed he'd been carrying since his visit with Nuna.

Mister Bates nervously laughed away the embarrassment as he gathered his materials. And in that moment, Norman informed the vampire that he needed his team's coordinates _“plugged into”_ their carrier craft at the next launch. Bates handed Lestat his own sheet with the proper numbers, but little did he realize he had picked up Nuna's coordinates by mistake.

The vampire glanced at the paper and nodded, assuring Bates that he was already on his way to do so for another operative and would immediately see to the task.

 


	4. This Old House

The benefit of stasis – when traveling between worlds – is that you're _unconscious_. However, the problem with stasis is also that you're _unconscious_. Had Nuna been awake during her trip through the Skein, there may have been the possibility she would have discovered the incorrect coordinates programmed into the autopilot system. But... from within the confines of stasis? No. There was no such possibility. Nuna was fast asleep in a coffin-like pod and, much like an unborn child, she had long been oblivious to the world outside her titanium facsimile of a dark, wet womb.

Meanwhile, her Nexus shuttle craft, after having passed through the Skein, entered a narrative bubble and drifted across the terrain for exactly fifteen minutes. It landed somewhere in Derry, Maine. The landing site was just on the outskirts of an area locals referred to as the Barrens. To be more precise, the craft landed no less than twenty yards from the Kenduskeag Stream, a tributary of a much larger river (the Penobscot) which branched across the northeasternmost state like a topographic tree. Aside from the Derry aspect, it was quite an accurate replica of the real landscape found on the Blue Planet.

Once the craft had settled, the autopilot then disengaged, triggering a domino effect of lights and sounds which erupted from the helm.

“ _Stasis deactivated.”_ The ship's computer enunciated a string of pre-programmed words in a polite, albeit deadpan, voice. In tandem with its robotic declaration, the lid to Nuna's pod emitted a series of beeps as it slid downward, revealing a watery pool just within. Submerged in the liquid was Nuna, naked as ever, peacefully sedated with a plastic breathing tube stretching from the depths of her throat to the inner wall of the pod.

“ _Beginning evacuation of equilibrium._ ” The liquid began to drain from Nuna's pod, emptying into some unseen chamber below the floor, on its way to sterilization and storage. (The substance would remain there, later to be reused for the trip home.) The pod then whirred quietly from the trigger of some mechanism within its thick encasement, removing the plastic tube from Nuna's throat. At first, the tube slid away from her lips with a quiet gracefulness. However, as it continued its departure, her face contorted just as one's would when mere seconds away from a violent coughing fit. The exact moment the breathing apparatus was no longer “one” with Nuna's facial anatomy was also the exact moment she subsequently hacked out a lungful of slippery, clear vomit. Her gasps, interrupted by her chokes, creating loud echoes within the shuttle, continued for some time as she grappled her way out of the pod. Struggling fretfully, Nuna's naked limbs were slick with a lab-designed slime. Her sinewy arms flailed as she wrestled against the damnable vertigo which often accompanied stasis. Her training covered all of these unpleasant side effects, plus she'd had a year of on-the-job assignments which required stasis travel. This wasn't the operative's first day on the farm, so to speak.

But... regardless of experience and training, Nuna Shine could never quite get used to this shit.

After exactly an hour of drying off, equipping her standard-issued protective gear, and reviewing the data file information, Nuna stepped out of the aircraft and looked out over the Barrens. The area was generally sunny from above, accompanied by the chirping of birds who flitted between the birch trees. The trees, with their bleached, skeleton-like trunks lined the heavy grass on either side of a shallow rush of water. The water trickled and splashed over wide, flat rocks – some as big as Nuna's shuttle craft, which, admittedly was on the smaller side of shuttle crafts.

Like every place she'd visited before, this place seemed _real_. But it wasn't – everything around Nuna was a work of fiction. This was not reality – it was an illusion. But the wind on her face and the aroma of the invasive honeysuckle that shrubbed up from the depths of the rust-colored soil, strangling down much of the indigenous Maine plant life, well, it all _felt_ so real. It looked real. Hell, it smelled _real_. Nuna raised a hand to her forehead, shielding the sun from her eyes. This landscape didn't quite meet the description in her file. There was no notation of a body of water within the vicinity. Yet, there it was.

“Probably not the first time they've made an oversight like this,” she mumbled under her breath. Regardless, enough was enough. Nuna needed to find the fabled Hill House and extract the group of Rescues haunting it. She was aware there were different versions of this Hill House, according to the file. Still, as she trudged her way out of the Barrens, reaching the outstretch of flatter land which eventually led back to what appeared to be a small New England town, Nuna scanned the area with heavy criticism. She decided that the file must have been grossly out of date, or perhaps the narrative was interrupted with a revised version of which she was not familiar by casework, alone.

The city before her was very quiet. It seemed almost empty. No cars moved along the roads. Had any pedestrians been out and about, they did not cross paths with Nuna. This wasn't a shock, however. In stories where the Rescue is nearby, particularly ones that may reside in a dilapidated, old house, the general population tends to “thin out” the closer one advances to the haunted residence. Nuna, however, clenched her teeth, feeling a familiar anxiety bubbling up from that usual place – the same place that feared any creature with an ML over 3. As she walked through the streets, clad in her otherworldly, and downright futuristic, Nexus-wear that clung to her body like something out of a Star Trek reboot, Nuna reached an unsettling conclusion: this _whole town_ felt haunted.

Nevertheless, she needed to prove to _the three_ that she could bring the group of Rescues home. She needed to move up in rank, eventually, and this particular assignment was hopefully going to be her last “easy” solo mission. Furthermore, it was _phenomenal_ that Bates had spoken up for Nuna – she reserved some hope that her next assignment would be to catch a bigger fish. (– _Person_. Bigger _person_. Can't refer to them as animals. Can't refer to them as things. They are people, too.) Disgusted with herself, Nuna shook her head. As she did so, her brief moment of self-correction was interrupted by the sound of cards flipping through the spokes of two bike wheels. She glanced over her shoulder, spotting a group of kids riding their bikes down the road. They didn't ride aimlessly, but more so as if they were on a mission. On a _hunt_.

Nuna raised two fingers to the corners of her mouth and belted out a high, piercing whistle. The bikes slowed. Each of the kids' heads whipped around; all eyes were on her. Nuna waved them over, hoping she wouldn't have to answer questions about her strange attire. Sometimes they asked, sometimes they didn't. It depended on the characters' levels of perception. Some just weren't perceptive at all. Others... well... they wanted to know the meaning behind her “oddball” name, not to mention what in the hell a woman traipsing around in a scifi-looking getup is even _doing around these parts_. One way or the other, it was alright to interact with the fictitious natives in these places. They often proved helpful in some situations. And right now? Right now Nuna was _stuck_. Since the data file was obviously out of date, there was now a pressing need to ask for directions. Somewhere in this kooky little city was a dried up old place with crumbling foundation and cobwebs as far as the eye could see, and that was where the ghost children played. (Or so she'd been led to believe.)

“Good morning,” grinned Nuna.

Each of the bikes advanced around her in a circle. Wary faces glared up at the unnervingly mysterious woman.

“It's n-n-n-not m-m-morning,” stuttered one of the kids. He was a boy with auburn hair and a very obvious language delay.

“Yeah,” added another boy. This one was a scrawny thing with dark hair and big, thick-rimmed glasses. He checked his watch. “It's, like, three thirty eight...” his voice suddenly changed, like he was doing a comical impersonation, “PEE EEM, senior!”

“Sh-sh-shut up, Richie,” replied the kid with the stutter. He looked Nuna up and down with caution. “Wh-who are _you_?”

The other kids hung back. There were seven of them, total. One token red headed girl. One token black boy. And the rest were a bunch of white boys. One of them was pretty fat, Nuna noticed. He must have been the token chubby character. Earthfolk loved their token characters. Just sprinkle them into the beige oatmeal, like pretty candy.

The group remained silent as the kid with the stutter continued to press Nuna with questions. So much for low perception. “Wh-who are y-you? Why are y-y-you d-d-d-dressed like that?”

Reaching out her hand, she answered, “My name's Nuna. And you are...?”

“B-B-Bill,” he replied. Bill did not shake Nuna's hand. It didn't take a trained operative to see that he clearly didn't trust her.

Slowly, awkwardly rescinding the handshake, Nuna added, “I'm looking for Hill House. Can you kids show me the way?”

The gang glanced at each other with scrunched brows, more so than what would be normal under the intense glare of the sun.

“Bill, I think we should leave,” whispered the red headed girl. “What if this is a... another trick?”

Nuna's eyes glanced from the left to the right of the group. “Trick?”

“Beverly's right,” agreed the fat kid. “This could be another one of Its tricks.”

“You mean another one of Its forms,” corrected the black kid.

“Look,” Nuna raised her hands, almost in a _peaceful demonstration_ sort of way, and chuckled. “I'm just looking for the haunted house. I heard this town has one. Great tourist attraction, yeah? Pretty spooky, right?”

“Mike,” said Beverly, “do you think she's talking about the Neibolt house?”

The black boy, Mike, responded, “Maybe. My grandpa says it's haunted, but...”

“That's where the well house was,” nodded the fat kid. “ _Is_...” he corrected.

“Wait – Ben, is **that** where we were headed just now? You said It came from the well house...” This question interjected from another scrawny white kid who anxiously pulled an aspirator from his pocket and began to hungrily puff at it.

“Calm down, Eddie,” said Ben.

“G-g- _go_ aw-w- _way_ ,” Bill wrestled with his words while trying to maintain an upright balance as he straddled his silver bike. His eyes fixed on Nuna with not only distrust, but contempt. It was as if he saw something evil inside of _her_ – as if she, herself, were the monster! ( _Rescue_.) He motioned for the gang to follow his lead as he placed his foot on his bike peddle and circled around the street's eroded pavement. The cards between the bike's spokes flipped and flapped as he rode into a direction away from the strange woman. As each kid peddled after Bill, Nuna never caught the name of the last boy who followed behind the rest. Earlier, he'd appeared stunned with fear while the rest had speculated about Nuna. But he'd never said a word.

 

* * *

 

A good operative doesn't need direct answers, but instead can pull from context. The kids may not have indulged Nuna in the information she requested, but they certainly didn't hide their side-chatter all too well. Neibolt house, eh? Also known as the well house? Maybe it was, thirdly, known as Hill House? Nuna had no fucking idea. That data file was, at this point, about as useful as a roll of toilet paper. Everything detailed in it was obviously inaccurate and out of date. These things happened. Perhaps not to this extent, but NERF did, at times, process information incorrectly. Maybe this was a test. _The three_ were testing Nuna, perhaps. They sent her on an easy mission, but with defective information. Yes. Yes of course! They wanted to see if she could think on her feet. That had to be it. Oh, she was wise to their game. Nuna would track down those Rescues and bring them back straight away. No data file needed.

She followed behind The Seven (that's what she'd named them in her head) and made certain to stay out of sight. Stealthing was one part of Nuna's training she'd passed with extraordinarily high marks. She was excellent at tracking, and even better at sticking to the shadows. As she trailed The Seven's path, Nuna couldn't shake that something seemed _off_ about these kids. Most side characters, admittedly, give this unsettling impression, however. The reason for such is because they follow a script – like an animatronic in a theme park. Their every action is pre-programmed, in a way, even if an operative intervenes. The intervention almost always seems to not have a lasting effect. If an operative stays out of their way for long enough, the characters will even forget who the operative is, in spite of having met them once or twice before. But no. That wasn't what felt off. They didn't _feel_ like side characters – like background folk. They came off more like main characters. _Protagonists_. The ...heroes.

Nuna knew that _heroes_ had to be closely monitored. They were the number one cause behind putting a Rescue in crisis. What didn't make sense, however, was... why would a group of preteens be the heroes in a ghost story about harmless, dead children?

_could be another one of Its tricks..._

What did that even mean?

 


	5. Into Its Lair We Go

The Seven arrived to a house that grossly stood out from the rest of the homes along the residential street. The front yard was surrounded by corroded chain link fencing, bent and twisted by the elements over the years. The landscaping was wild, abandoned to its wicked overgrowth that invaded the yard. Dried, crispy brown strands of dead foliage littered every conceivable walkway between the street's curb and the estate's foundation. In the dead center of the house's exterior, a rickety set of six wooden steps led to a crooked entryway. From a safe distance, Nuna watched as the kids ascended the steps, their curious heads bobbing up and down as they peeked through a door that seemed to have opened all on its own.

One by one, each of The Seven vanished beyond the dark threshold.

“Kids must love ghosts,” Nuna shrugged quietly. She emerged from her hiding spot and stepped out into the center of the road. Without warning, an old muscle car sped by, nearly plowing right over her. Unbeknownst to Nuna, who knew next to nothing about Earthfolksy vehicles, it was a 1978 Pontiac trans am – as blue as the bloated face of a corpse.

“Get the fuck out of the road!” a cracked, adolescent voice howled from the driver's seat. The car screeched to a halt just before it spun out its tires and furiously whipped around. A teenager with squinted eyes and a dirty blond mullet glared at Nuna from behind the wheel. Two other teens appeared to be in the car with him – their throats were slashed. They were as still as dolls, eyes wide, stiffly leaned back in their seats. Blood seeped from the gashes across their adams apples, saturated through the white cotton of their shirts. It looked almost as if the boys wore big red bibs, draped from their chins to their chests. Both were dead. The driver, and most assuredly their killer, had a crazed look in his eyes, like a madman eager to add more to his body count. He threw the car into park and hopped out, flipping a sizable knife in the air. The boy nimbly caught it each time by the handle, never missing a beat as he advanced toward Nuna.

“The fuck are you doing here, bitch?! Get the _fuck_ outta my town!”

For a split second, Nuna couldn't figure out if this was a Rescue or not. He'd clearly attacked two other characters, but something told her that _this_ antagonist was also _just a character_ – not a materialized reality within a narrative. Not a ghost, nor a vampire, nor a monster – and this boy certainly didn't quite have the _gravitas_ that most human Rescues possessed. Legitimate human Rescues had a dignity to them – a poised intelligence, like Dr. Lecter, or Mister Bates, or even Buffalo Bill, whom Dr. Fallengod _also_ personally counseled.

( **Sidenote** : And that was quite an important doctor-patient pairing, considering the unfortunate demonizing of that _particular_ Rescue's gender identity issues. Fallengod, a trans woman herself, was _quite_ successful at deprogramming the murderous “Buffalo Bill” aspect from Jame Gumb's psyche. Gumb now lived happily in the Nexus community as a fully transitioned female. And she was one of the _best damn operatives_ they had – namely in reconnaissance!)

“I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, _bitch_! And then I'm gonna kill those fuckin' Losers!” The boy flipped his knife one last time, snatched it midair, and pounded his heels into the pavement. Bum rushing toward Nuna, he advanced faster than she could retreat. With an outstretched arm, the boy clotheslined her right across the collarbone, knocking the operative flat to the street. “Bitch! Fucking nasty BITCH! STUPID CUNT! BITCH! FUCK YOU!” This kid was deranged. He continued to scream until his words became indecipherable, his voice grew hoarse, and spittle decorated his chin. The knife was now raised high above his head, aiming to plunge it down into Nuna's chest.

Her heart raced, but she remembered her training. As the boy drew a quick breath – the classic precursor to an attack – within that nanosecond Nuna whipped out her disruptor pistol, aimed it square between his beady eyes, and fired. After the blast erupted, there he stood, paralyzed within that moment he'd drawn that final breath. A smoky hole as big as a fist had tunneled its way through his forehead. _Straight_ through. In fact, from where Nuna was lying on her back, she could see the kid's blue Pontiac parked on the other side of that hole. She even spied the two dead boys propped in their seats. The nutty kid dropped his knife, then dropped to his knees, and promptly fell over dead.

 _I dunno what the fuck that was_ , she thought, standing to her feet, _but I gotta keep moving before he resets and comes back._

 

* * *

 

Hill House wasn't what Nuna had expected. On the inside, it was very small – not quite a sprawling estate, but rather a slightly oversized colonial-style home. Still.. it was just a house. Not a mansion, as the paperwork specified. Between the knife-wielding, walking mullet from the street, those seven paranoid kids, and this wholly inaccurate layout of a supposedly _haunted_ house, Nuna no longer believed she had been sent on the mission originally assigned. Stepping into the dark, crumbling foyer, she glanced around, then hesitated. It wasn't too late. She could turn back _right now._ Get into the shuttle craft. Hurry back to the Nexus. _Yeah_. Hurry back... _empty handed._ What would _the three_ think of her then?

_A terrible idea, Nuna._

She'd made it this far. Up to this point, she'd demonstrated her aptitude for adapting to unforeseen obstacles. She engaged this mission _like a pro_ and hit the ground running. Hell, she even managed to quickly dispatch an antagonist obstructing her completion of the assignment. This was indeed the rawest experience Nuna had ever had. Until this mission, she'd never even _fired her gun_ – not outside of training. Why turn back? Why quit? _A foolish thing to do,_ she decided. Career suicide. Nuna unholstered her disruptor pistol and continued through the foyer, her boots softly clunked around pieces of broken wood, kicking away shambles that had fallen from the wall and ceiling. As she made her way down a narrow hallway, she heard the faint sound of voices screaming somewhere in the distance.

One of the kids cried out over the raucous clamor of the others. _“Kill it! KILL IT!”_

Nuna spied a light just ahead, coming from the kitchen area. She saw bodies shuffling back toward a wall, each silhouette was just about the size of each of the kids she'd met earlier. Something _else,_ quite tall and imposing _,_ ambled through her line of vision, but it moved fast, rumbling a low, heinous growl as it swiped a clawed hand through the air. Nuna inched closer to the kitchen's entrance, but the taller figure had vanished, leaving behind those same seven kids. Holding her gun with the barrel pointed to the ceiling, she eyed The Seven as they looked at her and begged for help.

“It went that way!” said Richie, the ol' walking, talking pair of giant glasses. He gestured to a shadowy exit that led back through another corridor and down to a lower level of the house. “Are you ready Big Bill?” he turned and asked the kid with the stutter.

Bill nodded with angry resolve. “R-r-r-ready.”

Nuna realized it now – whatever they'd been fighting... _that_ was the Rescue in question. They must have scared it back into hiding.

“Will you please help us?” asked Ben.

“She has a gun – she can maybe stop it!” shouted Beverly.

“Uh... hm,” stammered Nuna, “...sure,” she lied. Anything to get closer to her target. Rescues were the number one priority.

As she followed The Seven through that dark exit, down the next corridor, and even _further_ down beneath the main level of the house, she pondered the fact that they've each, unknowingly, run this course again and again. Nuna wasn't clear on the timeline, whether it had been every six hours or every six months, but nonetheless, these kids – these _characters_ – had no idea that they'd traipsed down that same corridor, and descended into that same dank, moldy well time after time. Unfortunately, the Rescue was unaware of this too. It was some kind of _narrative amnesia_ , or so Bizdil Bodaway had proposed in his original research. The phenomenon of such made it challenging to convince a Rescue that everything around them was essentially a hamster wheel; their own simulated prison. Repetitive and scripted, right down to the dialogue. Except... the Rescues were _real_. Materialized. On a subconscious level, they knew they were trapped. Like when you know you're dreaming and you want to wake up, but you just _can't_... _quite_...

“Fucking k-k-keep up!” shouted Bill. The entire group trudged through the murky waters of the sewer which ran below the house and street. Some of the kids were lagging behind, as was likely the flow of the narrative. Some _had_ to split off, get lost, get _hurt_. Nuna ascertained this particular Rescue was more aggressive than ones to which she'd previously been accustomed.

And on that note, she pulled the nearest kid, Mike, close and whispered, “ _Hey_ , kid.”

“Yeah?”

“What are we dealing with _exactly_? Werewolf? _Vampire_?”

“What? No. No... _no_...” His eyes went vacant for a moment. The water sloshed between their legs as they moved in sync, deeper into the dark tunnels, advancing ever closer to Nuna's objective.

“Well, then... what is it?” she pressed.

“A clown...it...” Mike's voice drifted.

Nuna's eyes narrowed. “A _clown_?”

“It's not just any clown!” Mike huffed. “It's a _monster_. It kills kids.”

“ _Just_ kids?”

Mike furrowed his brow. “Well... _no_. But most of the time? _Yes_.”

“What exactly does it look like?”

Mike shrugged. “I dunno. It's a god damn clown! It has big orange hair and white paint on its face. Buck teeth. Red lines from its mouth to its eyes, like a … a _cheetah_! Big ruffles around its neck and white gloves and clown shoes! Looks like a scary Halloween doll!”

“Its head is massive...” added Richie. “Like you could _land a fucking plane_ on that head.”

“Sh-sh-shut up!” warned Bill. “We n-n-need to st-st-stay qui-quiet.”

The group, including Nuna, arrived to a juncture between the sewer tunnels, which opened up wide and tall, revealing an old abandoned caravan smack in the middle. Across its wooden frame, in red and yellow paint, the words PENNYWISE THE DANCING CLOWN had faded to much paler shades. Heaps of junk littered the area, obstructing a clearer view of the vicinity. Old pogo sticks, tattered clothes, toys, and broken bikes gathered up from the oily black concrete and piled high – higher than a small building.

 _Here we are_ , thought Nuna. _We're finally in its lair..._

 


	6. The Burst

While Nuna had been scoping the area, she was separated from the group. Or rather... the group had separated from her. She'd been wholly immersed in gathering observational details about this Rescue's lair. Nuna wanted to understand exactly _what_ it was. It couldn't have simply been a killer clown – which there _had_ been a number of _those_ rescued and taken to the Nexus. But... killer clowns were on the same level as human Rescues. Killer clowns were nothing more than killer _men_ – killer men in face paint. The Joker, for instance, had his own place at Fiddler's Green. He was beyond the reach of Fallengod's psychoptherapy. Even Dr. Lecter couldn't rehabilitate him. The Joker, even within his _own_ narrative, had been no stranger to attempted rehabilitation. Yet, even within the Joker's fictitious gambit, the man's mind proved to be unsalvageable. However, for being _just_ a man, the Joker may have been one of the only human Rescues to score an ML of 11. The reason being, he could easily mastermind organized destruction with a simple idea, alone. But, _really_ , just look at the saga which bred him. The Joker's narrative was famously robust.

No. This was no _man_ hunt. By the looks of the lair, it almost felt like a... a _nest_. Nuna suspected this Rescue had more animalistic qualities, but through some otherworldly ability, it could present itself in humanoid form, including that of a clown. She realized that the Seven, in spite of being the heroes, had little to no concept of their adversary. That might explain why their first encounter with Nuna was so heavily peppered with suspicion.

In the distance, Nuna heard crying. It sounded like a young child – much younger than any of the Seven.

“ _What took you so long? I was looking for you this whole time...”_

Nuna crept around a larger pile of junk and leaned to the side. She spied what appeared to be a scene playing itself out between a one-armed child wearing a yellow slicker and the stuttering boy named Bill. Bill's six other friends watched the conversation with trepidation.

“ _Take me home, Billy. I wanna go home...”_

Nuna emerged from her hiding spot...

“ _Georgie, I want more than anything for you to be home with mom and dad...”_

...and slowly approached...

“ _But you're not Georgie...”_

...careful not to make a sound...

“ _Kill him, Bill! KILL IT! KILL HIM NOW!”_

Nuna dashed through the crowd of screaming preteens and shoved Bill out of the way before he could make another move toward the one-armed boy. As if she hadn't intervened at all, Georgie fell backward and began to giggle and convulse along the wet, filthy ground. His appendages writhed and twisted, slapping against the concrete with ferocity as they transitioned from fingers, knees, and elbows to an array of wriggling, purple tentacles. The tentacles made a sticky wet sound as they suctioned to the ground, then swiftly bounced away with a multitude of pops. The child's giggling rose in volume, then transitioned to the sound of deep, cold-blooded laughter which was no longer that of a child's – and much less that of a human's. The tentacles gave up their aquatic shape as they morphed back into humanoid arms and legs, but this time much lankier, like those of an adult's. As Mike had promised with that dreadful tone moments ago, rising upright to full stance (which was _well over six and a half feet_ ) was a sinister clown. Behind the parallel, red grin-lines that decorated its cheeks, the clown's expression was riddled with an equal mixture of malevolence and giddiness.

Nuna took a deep breath. “ _Okay_...”

Bill stood to his feet. “Wh-wh-what the f-f-fuck are you d-d-doing?!”

The group of kids continued to scream _KILL IT_ again and again as Bill rambled “offscript”, berating Nuna for her interference.

Blindsided by the imposing nature of the clown, the operative struggled to remember her training. _Tune them out._ It was always imperative to ignore the other characters in crisis situations like these. The Rescue was _always_ the priority. Nuna turned toward her mission objective. “ _Pennywise_ , is it?” she asked with the disruptor pistol pointed to the ceiling – but her finger nervously lingered close to the trigger.

“ _Nuna Shine_ , is it?” he snapped back, mockingly.

 _Perfect_ , she thought. _Telepathy_. From what she understood about telepathic Rescues was that... their telepathy was perceptive enough to learn your personal details, but _not_ perceptive enough to understand that their environment was a simulation. _Intelligent, yet deluded._

Regardless, she initiated standard protocol. “Yes. My name _is_ Nuna Shine. I come from the Nexus. I'm here to rescue you. Come back with me to the shuttle craft and we can get you processed for our return.” Every word, with the exception of her own name, had been regurgitated from an operative handbook. Pennywise grinned, revealing a row of jagged, sharp teeth. It was almost as if he knew _just how pathetic_ of an attempt at deescalation that had been.

The Seven continued to scream _KILL IT,_ at this point quite unnaturally, like a looped recording. Meanwhile, Bill was pacing in a small circle, gesturing angrily in the air, babbling to himself about his determination to avenge Georgie – and this time without a single stutter. He was no longer focused on the clown or even on his friends. Bill's words sounded about as regurgitated as Nuna's, as if he'd been programmed to speak them in the case of a malfunction. _“I'm supposed to stop this thing! I need to find out what happened to Georgie! I want to make sure no more kids go missing! I'm supposed to stop this thing! I need to find out what happened to Georgie! I want to make sure no more kids go missing! I'm supposed to stop this thing! I need to find...”_ He repeated himself, again and again.

Pennywise eyed Bill for a moment, as if something stirred him to question _what the hell_ was going on. But as quickly as he'd been distracted, his attention immediately redirected back to Nuna. His smile widened, somehow triggering his teeth to grow sharper – _longer_. Drool collected along his plump bottom lip and subsequently fell to the ground. Nuna briefly looked down, hypnotized by the viscosity of the saliva as the heaviest portion of it reached the floor. She quickly shook her head, returning her eyes to meet the clown's. His eyes were yellow – no, they were _more_ than yellow. _Glowing_. His eyes glowed like two suffering fireflies paralyzed and trapped in the nebulous haze of two black orbs; glowing, bloodshot, ocular orbs that hungrily locked onto Nuna. With the speed of a cat, Pennywise reached for her throat and squeezed, effortlessly lifting the operative off the ground.

Then, the clown's mouth opened and _another_ mouth from within emerged. This one presented to be even more monstrous – _leechlike_ – riddled with teeth all throughout its enlarging orifice. Those glowing eyes began to roll up into their inhuman lids. Horrified, Nuna's heart pounded. She didn't even want to venture a guess as to _this_ Rescue's ML rating.

Without warning, Bill ran up, screaming his same lines again and again. He powerfully kicked Pennywise square in the abdomen, causing the clown to drop the Nexus operative. It was almost as if Bill's strength had been temporarily amplified, going above and beyond the average capacity for a boy. Nuna stood to her feet, but before she could make another move, Bill turned and backhanded her in the face, shouting for the intruder to _GO AWAY AND LEAVE US ALONE –_ almost as if the narrative had begun to fight back at her interference. She reached to her face and wiped away a fair amount of blood. It had quickly oozed from her nose and from the corner of her mouth. Bill had hit Nuna _hard_. The blood continued to discharge, leaking along her lips and chin.

Pennywise clutched a gloved hand over his torso and stumbled backward a bit, stabilizing his jarred movement. Then the clown lurched forward and hissed at Bill, almost as if the pair were about to resume their usual interaction.

“No!” shouted Nuna. She readied her pistol. “Don't you understand?! This isn't real! _NONE_ of this is real!”

Pennywise ignored her, as did Bill. The two were now almost nose-to-nose, ready to commence with their scripted fight. The clown had no interest in anything Nuna said. It was as if she'd faded into the distance, along with the broken toys and abandoned caravan.

_...Burst their bubble..._

A gunshot rang out, silencing the shouts of the other kids. Pennywise's head cocked to the side, utterly confused by the sight of Bill Denbrough, Stuttering Bill, Billy Boy, Big Bill... standing there... with a large bullet hole carved through his adolescent chest. It had exploded from his back, ejecting through his front. Bill looked down and touched the wound, looked back up, and uttered, “G-G-Georgie...?” Tears welled in his innocent eyes. Bill Denbrough collapsed.

Stunned, Pennywise stared at the dead boy at his feet. He'd never seen _this_ character dead before. The clown blinked a few times and twitched his head from side to side, as if he were attempting to stop a ringing in his ears. Then he looked beyond Bill's dead body, watching Nuna Shine, the strangely dressed woman, standing with her gun pointed at the group of kids. The remaining six shouted furiously at her – they cursed and spat. Beverly and Richie had both dropped to their knees and sobbed, screaming Bill's name through wild, frantic tears.

“It's _not real!_ ” Nuna yelled over her shoulder, back to the clown. “This is your _prison!_ I'm here to get you out! Can you see that now? Or do you need _more_ convincing?” As the group of six advanced on Nuna with an uncharacteristic deadliness in their eyes, she took each of them out. Round after round of disruptor bullets pelted through the air, striking each of the preteens where they stood, putting them flat on the ground, unmoving – subdued by lifelessness. The sewer was now eerily quiet. The crying and yelling and scripting had stopped.

“You... you _killed_ them...” Pennywise couldn't stop looking at the seven fresh bodies that littered his lair. He'd never seen such a thing before. He admittedly felt... _some_ remorse. Only because this was so unfamiliar that it almost _hurt_. But then a hint of exhilaration bubbled up in his voice. “Killed them _all_.” He grinned. “They're... _dead_.”

Nuna tried to catch her breath. She panted for air and holstered her pistol, convinced she'd gotten _through_ to this Rescue – _finally_. “Not exactly,” she explained. “They're 'dead' for now. But they'll be back. Can't say when... I've no idea when they reset.” She pressed her lips tight and sighed through flared nostrils. “But they _always_ reset,” Nuna added. “They'll  _always_ come back for you.” She cleared her throat and gestured to the bodies. “There's no _end_ to them. This is only a pause. But this gives us enough time to get back to my shuttle.”

“Shuttle...?” the clown's glowing eyes narrowed.

“It's over in the … I dunno... those wetlands. We need to hurry. _Now!_ You need to follow me! I promise everything will make sense once we move beyond the Skein. It'll all be explained.”

Pennywise reached a hand to his head and curiously scratched at his wild, orange hair. A wide smile formed, almost ear to ear. He chuckled with a hint of treachery and said, “Nuna, Nuna, _Nuna_...” He shook his head disapprovingly. “I'm... _so_ _very_ _hungry_.” Gesturing to the dead Losers Club, he huffed, “THIS. What am I to do with THIS?”

“What?” snapped Nuna. “ _Hungry?_ ” Her eyes squinted with confusion. 

Pennywise rushed forward, grabbing Nuna in a rough embrace, pulling her face close to his own. Again, his teeth grew long and sharp, pooling drool from their knife-like tips. His voice spoke in a low, ethereal rasp, almost as if it hadn't come from his mouth, but rather bounced around inside of Nuna's mind. _“I'm starving, child. Starving for flesh. And I do not consume the unfeeling. I do not consume the dead. This meat has been spoiled, for it feels no terror. I need it fresh. Fresh with fear.”_

Nuna tried to fight against his grip but he was far too strong. All the while, she felt a sticky, hot breath radiating from between Pennywise's teeth.

“ _Tell me what it is... what it is... you fear...”_

Nuna closed her eyes and screamed, only to feel his grip slacken and drop her to the ground.

“ _What is it... what is it... what do you fear? I'll pull it from your mind and draw it ever near...”_

Nuna opened her eyes, and found herself inside a brightly lit bedroom. She no longer wore her Nexus gear, but instead she'd been dressed in a thin, red nightgown. “What is this?” she shouted. “Where am I?!”

The room had a small twin bed, covered in lacy white bed clothing. The walls were empty and plain, coated in off-white paint. The shape of the room was a simple square. Along the far wall was a wide, tall glass window, but Nuna couldn't see out of it, because the room was so bright. The light above glared... just as brightly as the sun over The Barrens. She could tell that outside of the window it must have been dark. Night time, perhaps. Dusk.

_They can see me._

Nuna wasn't sure who _they_ were, but she felt ... _watched_. Frantically, she searched the walls for a light switch – something to bring about the darkness, to hide her from the eyes on the other side of that window. She found nothing. No switch. Could she break the light fixture? But each time she tried to look up to the ceiling, the very glare from the light pierced her vision. She couldn't look directly at it without wincing and covering her face. It was an unfathomably radiant light that poured down on top of her – almost as if it bore weight. Nuna hurried to the window to search for curtains or blinds. Something... _anything_ to cover it up!

_What was I doing? Where was I before this?_

Her breathing steadily increased until she couldn't keep it under control. Her hands frantically patted the walls and framework of the window – that massive window. It seemed to be growing in size, widening and stretching every time she turned away to find something to cover it up. She tried the lacy bed sheets but there was no way to attach them around the window. With each failed attempt, Nuna's heart pounded right into her ears. Her panic rose higher and higher, it was almost strangulating. She backed herself against the far wall, lifted her head high, and _screamed_. She screamed and screamed, begging for the light to stop. Begging for darkness, for all of this to go away. And with a sudden flash she was back in the sewer, dressed in her gear, still within the unfaltering grip of the clown. He seemed utterly pleased with the overload of fear he'd flooded through Nuna.

“Tasty, _tasty_...” he growled playfully. Through the sharp pattern of Pennywise's teeth, a tongue emerged.

Nuna trembled and grimaced as it undulated closer to her face.

The clown hungrily licked at the blood that had caked around her mouth and nose. Nuna began to shake violently with a magnitude of terror that she didn't even know was possible to experience. But before she nearly blacked out from it all, Pennywise's tongue suddenly jerked back into his mouth, like a measuring tape after you unclick its stopper.

He made a disgusted noise and recoiled. It was if he'd tasted something bitter. Something horrible. Something to which his palette was unaccustomed. “What...” he gagged, “ _are_ you?!” The clown dropped Nuna and continued to gag and dry heave, as if vomit were about to bubble out, but none ever did.

Nuna, no longer giving a single shit about _the three,_ much less her career, shouted, “ _Fuck_ this!” and spun around on her heels. With her gun held high and her adrenaline fueling the fire bursting under her feet, she ran straight back through the way the kids had brought her.

 


	7. Seventeen

Nuna _ran_. She ran until her legs shook with every stride. As she barreled through the sewers and climbed back up the well with next to no hesitation, Nuna's lungs demandingly huffed for air. She didn't care. Fuck her lungs. _Fuck em. They could still breathe. Keep fuckin' moving._ She raced through the kitchen, sprinting back down the corridor toward the house's exit. Nuna obstinately crashed through piles of crumbling debris, kicking and swiping them from her path with little discrimination.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ ” She'd repeated under her breath. She'd been repeating that since the sewers. Down the hall, through the foyer, slamming into the sharp edge of an old dining room table, which instead of slowing her down, encouraged Nuna to leap straight up in the air and boldly slide across its dusty surface, clearing the fucker entirely. She hopped down from the opposite side, and as soon as her feet hit the hardwood floor, she maintained her previous speed, not a stumble – not a god damn pause. Nuna emerged from the house, her face as still as stone, her eyes determined. Quick on her toes, she hustled down the wooden steps, then soared across the concrete walkway covered in yard waste. Dried leaves and dead brush exploded into the air as she dashed on through. _“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”_ She almost looked like one of those speed-walkers you'd catch at early hours around the neighborhood, with those fists up, swinging in short, unrelenting bursts. As Nuna zoomed across the street, she took note of the fact that the dead crazy kid with the knife was no longer there. _No longer dead_. His car was gone too. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK – _FUCK!_ ” she raged. Nuna kept moving. Had to get to her shuttle. Had to hurry. No time.

_No fucking time._

_This wasn't my fault_ , she reasoned in her head as she rushed across the city, cutting through yards and streets and alleyways. _They must have sent me here by accident. This has to be a mistake. This assignment couldn't have been meant for me._ Nuna was no longer within the town of Derry, but now made her way across the outskirts, nearing The Barrens. Her aircraft was just ahead, just across the running water. _What happened back there?_ Nuna couldn't shake the sensation of being trapped in that tiny room with that gargantuan window, unable to see out. It was a fear she didn't even consciously realize she'd had. But now? Now she was _all too aware_.

The shuttle was just ahead. She splashed through the water that flowed across the flat rocks, kicking up moss and grass. Nuna climbed up and over the embankment and trudged ever closer toward her aircraft. Thoughts of settling back into a familiar space began to calm her nerves. Comfort. She needed comfort right now. With that resolution, Nuna reached for the door to the craft and –

“BITCH!” hollered a familiar voice.

Nuna felt a sharp object crack her upside the back of the head. It knocked her vision dark, and then she could have sworn she saw stars. Rubbing the base of her skull, her eyesight gradually returned. Nuna looked down to see a fist-sized rock mere inches from the toe of her boot. She whipped around and saw _him –_ that fucking kid with the mullet. She didn't have the patience for this crap anymore. She picked up that same rock and chucked it right back at him, hitting the little dipshit dead in the mouth.

The kid yelped and covered his face. Blood trickled from his lips.

Nuna drew her gun and pointed it at him. “Do we need to go through this _again_ , kid?”

His eyes went wide and he raised his hands. “You psycho BITCH!” he yelled. “Get the fuck outta my town!”

Nuna fired off a round at his kneecap, forcing the kid to fall over crippled. That would slow him down, maybe more so than putting another one in his head. His reset time must have been quicker than she imagined.

“With _pleasure_...” Nuna answered. Turning away, she forced open the shuttle door, climbed inside, slamming and locking it shut – _tight_. Then she hurried over to helm control and powered up the autopilot system by placing her palm on a heat-sensitive panel.

The craft's AI awoke from its sleep mode. _“Operative identified. Greetings, agent Shine, badge number 0-5-2-0.”_

“ _Yeah_ , yeah, yeah.” Nuna furiously punched her fingers into a panel of buttons, then flipped exactly three different switches, all in an attempt to engage the shuttle's helm control. “Get me back to Nexus, will you?”

“ _Affirmative, agent Shine. Coordinates accepted. Preparing stasis pod. Approximate wait time: twenty three minutes.”_

“God damn it.”

The stasis pod's lid slid open and the complex engineering of its internal framework began executing code, prepping itself for Nuna's return home. Meanwhile, she sighed and curled up on the cold, metal floor, eagerly waiting. Nuna focused on her breathing in an attempt to slow it down, but no such luck. She was still high on adrenaline.

“Just calm _down_...” she repeated. “ _Calm_ down.”

A loud, sudden bang hit the side of her shuttle craft. Bolting upright, Nuna almost pissed herself. Then the banging continued, faster and faster. She realized there was also yelling. Muffled, but it was there – _right there_ – right outside the shuttle.

“Computer,” Nuna commanded, “Center screen. _Now_.”

A screen dipped down from a panel in the ceiling, revealing real time surveillance of the perimeter of the shuttle. That fucking kid. He was out there. He dragged himself through the muddy grass, all the way to Nuna's aircraft. He was banging on the door, screaming his same script of curses and threats again and again. He was... _relentless_.

Nuna slunk back to her fetal position on the floor and covered her ears. “Stop... stop... stop!” she begged in a whisper. Before she knew it, tears welled in the corners of her eyes. “Just go away. _Go away..._ ”

“ _I_ can make Henry go away,” said a throaty, frivolous voice.

Nuna screamed. Looking up, there he was... that _clown_. Pennywise. He stood right inside her shuttle, staring down at Nuna with a slack-jawed grin and glowing snake eyes.

“You!” she cried. “ _How_ did you...”

“I can make Henry Bowers do _anything_ ,” he proudly nodded. “Would you like him to go away?”

Ignoring the question, Nuna frantically reached for her pistol, but before she could get a good grip on it, the clown snatched her by the wrist and shook it from her hand.

“Not that it would have done you any good...” He said in a _tsk-tsk_ sort of tone.

At her wits' end, Nuna looked up at him and screamed.

Pennywise's expression softened. Shushing her, he placed a gloved hand over Nuna's mouth to muffle the sounds coming from her ridiculous shouting face. “I _did_ give you quite a fright back there, didn't I?” He smiled sheepishly, not in his usual, malicious way. The smile seemed almost genuine, which didn't quite fit his face right, but nonetheless, there it was. “I... _am_ sorry for that.” He pulled Nuna close, still covering her mouth, still muffling her now weakened cries. She felt his upper body against her own, breathing in and out as he sighed. “I'm ready to accompany you to this... _Nexus_.”

Nuna's cries eventually died down. Pennywise maintained a gentle hand cupped over her mouth until he could see that she was legitimately done screaming. Removing his hand, he continued to shush Nuna as a two fat tears dropped down her cheeks. Using his thumb, he wiped one of them away with a chuckle. Her emotions were quite amusing.

“You never answered my question about Henry...” he noted with a smirk.

Nuna shook her head in disbelief. “Why do you suddenly want to come? You believe me now? You believe this place is fake?” After what she'd been through, Nuna wasn't so sure about letting him come with her. But after seeing his magic _appearing-from-thin-air_ act, she wasn't so sure she had a choice, anyway.

“After my – erhm – encounter with you, I believe there's definitely _something_ _more_ beyond this place, yes,” he admitted. “I'm ready to float this boat into the sky!” he laughed.

“ _What?"_ Nuna was still in disbelief. “Yeah. About our _encounter_... what exactly did you fucking do to me back there?”

“Ah,” the clown nodded. “ _That_.” He let go of Nuna and raised his hand in the air. With the snap of two fingers, Henry's banging and screaming outside immediately ceased.

Nuna glanced at the monitor, only to see that Henry was still out there, albeit catatonic, as if he'd been paralyzed in a state of utter shock and horror.

“That's just... _what I do_ ,” admitted Pennywise. “But that particular incident wasn't the encounter to which I refer. It was... _afterward_... when I tasted your blood.”

Nuna commanded the ship's computer to turn off the center screen. “Well...” she said, turning toward the clown with an earnest look in her eyes, “...don't do that – any of that – to me ever again.”

“At this point,” Pennywise smiled, pushing a strand of Nuna's hair away from her eyes almost in a doting sort of way, “I'd like to know _exactly_ what you are.”

Nuna's glare narrowed. “What're you talking about? I'm human.” She walked over to the control panel at the helm and tapped at five distinct buttons. “But, on _that_ note, in order for me to get you safely back into Nexus territory, _I_ need to know exactly what _you_ are.” Nuna pointed at a blue line etched into the metal flooring. “Stand there a minute. This won't hurt.”

Pennywise nodded, and stood on the blue line. Moments later, a thin red light descended from the ceiling and scanned over his body.

The shuttle's AI spoke, _“Subject identified. Narratives include both literature and cinema. Modern. Contemporary. Creator: Stephen King. Aliases: Pennywise the Dancing Clown. The Eater of Worlds. The Derry Disease. Robert “Bob” Gray.”_

“Bob Gray?” asked Nuna.

“Not all titles are so _obvious_ ,” mused the clown.

“So what should I call you?”

“Pick one,” he shrugged his shoulders beneath his neck ruffs. “Though, I wouldn't be opposed to _Superior Being_.” He flashed a wicked grin.

“I'll... eh... I'll call you Gray.”

Pennywise frowned. “Very well. _Gray_. How exceedingly dull.” He crossed his arms.

“ _Species identified. Eldritch glamour. Abilities include: lower tier omnipotence, shapeshifting, invisibility, invulnerability, telepathy...”_

“Jesus christ,” Nuna glanced over at Pennywise, who simply shrugged back at her with a toothy smile.

“ _...psionics, mind control, possession, teleportation, chlorokinesis...”_

She lifted an eyebrow. “Holy hell – there's just no end to this resume of yours, is there?”

“ _...telekinesis, weather control, and superhuman strength and speed.”_

“Good god! Do you even _need_ to go into stasis as we travel?” Nuna pressed two more buttons at the panel. “Now I'm morbidly curious as to your menace level...”

The scanner blipped another flash of red light across the clown's body. It paused a moment, computing its analysis. Then the computer replied, _“This Rescue's menace level is calculated at 17.”_

“Oh,” said Nuna, blinking slowly. “I am so getting a fucking promotion...”

 


	8. God Save the Queen

“You realize your mistake could have cost Ms. Shine her life?” The phrase was an imperative accusation, shrouded in polite query. Nevertheless, Dr. Lecter's voice was cordially firm as the catechism rolled off his tongue. His eyes, as rigidly fixed as they were on Lestat, never betrayed his naturally serene affect. “ _Monsieur de Lioncourt?_ ” Dr. Lecter pronounced Lestat's title and surname with an effortless perfection of French.

Pinhead and Medusa, the other two of _the three,_ remained on either side of Dr. Lecter in silence. Dr. Fallengod sat beside Lestat, typing quietly onto a datapad.

The vampire kept his wickedly piercing blue eyes averted from the trio. He swallowed hard, staring into the dark surface of that large, marble table. His vivid eye color shifted to a dull gray. If only he could disappear into that stony, ebony nothingness right this moment. _Oh, to be hidden by shadow._ But things didn't work like that here on the Nexus. This wasn't the Blue Planet. This wasn't Paris. To a maddening degree, these fleeting grievances often circulated in Lestat's head. _Louis..._

“Yes,” nodded the aristocrat. “I realize my error could have had dire consequences for Ms. Shine.” He lifted his head, daringly re-establishing eye contact with his interrogator. “Where is she now? _Is_ she alright?”

“She's doing better,” replied Dr. Fallengod, setting down her datapad. “Ms. Shine's state upon return was...” she cleared her throat, “... _rattled_.”

Lestat arrogantly eyeballed, then tugged, the lacy fabric around his left wrist. “Is that a _medical_ term, doctor?” he asked, snippily.

“ _Monsieur_...” with a single word, Dr. Lecter warned the vampire in a gentle, albeit graciously _dark,_ tone. Lestat nodded, as if he'd just remembered why he was sitting there, for he was in no position to exercise his own review.

“Nuna,” continued Dr. Fallengod, “has been subjected to three psych evaluations. From my findings, she has experienced low level trauma.” Fallengod exhaled a deep breath of relief. With a determined nod, she reassured Dr. Lecter, “My findings indicate the operative experienced nothing _too_ serious. The psychological damage was minimal.”

“But is it _reversible_?” asked Dr. Lecter.

Dr. Fallengod nodded.

Dr. Lecter tilted his head inquisitively. “Is she... _stabilized?_ ”

Fallengod crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin in sync with the lift of an optimistic beam in her eyes. “Aside from the complaint of nightmares, which seem to be tapering off, _yes_. The operative demonstrates functional stability.”

Dr. Lecter smiled warmly. “Good.”

“ _Good_ ,” agreed Lestat. “Nuna is my friend. I would be devastated to think I'd ... _destroyed_ her.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He didn't want to _be_ here anymore, listening to the _mind doctors_ talk about Nuna like she was some lab rat. Couldn't they just write him up and be done with it? The more he thought about the possibility that Nuna could have been hurt, _could have been killed,_ the more his heart ached at the idea of being solely responsible. Lestat _liked_ Nuna. She was a lovely friend and a _preferable_ colleague. The very idea that she could have been DOA was dreadful. He grievously remembered his most recent interaction with her... it was quite sour. That _was_ his fault. Lestat owed Nuna an apology – and perhaps a single rose. _Something_ to demonstrate contrition.

Pinhead leaned forward in his chair. With fingers as pale as bone, he folded his hands on the table. “Lestat, you are a fine operative,” he began. His voice echoed, deep and cutting, like the cry of a jaguar in a glass cage. “As assistant Chief of Operations, you've demonstrated outstanding work. Because of your time and service to the Nexus, we've chosen not to strip you of that rank. We believe, in light of this grave error, you _are_ a crucial part of our team.”

Lestat nodded. “...I... I _thank_ you, sir.”

“I haven't finished,” said Pinhead. “In spite of such, we _have_ considered placing you on a two week administrative leave.” The other two of _the three_ nodded in agreement. “However, Dr. Fallengod has suggested an alternative.” The cenobite nodded to the doctor across the table. “He's all yours.”

Fallengod stood, gesturing for Lestat to follow her. She gave _the three_ a quick nod of acknowledgment as she and the vampire exited the conference room. “Follow me,” she instructed Lestat. The doctor walked briskly down the hallway, heading toward the elevator.

With little effort the vampire matched her pace. “ _Where_ are we going?”

“I'll explain everything,” Fallengod promised. Her heels clacked hard against the tile flooring as the two of them drew closer to the elevator panel. Pushing the _down_ button, she watched it glow a bright green. “But first I'd rather show you than tell you.” The elevator dinged and its doors opened. As the two entered, Fallengod shrugged and said, “I'm a woman of science, Mr. Lioncourt. Observation speaks louder than words.” The doors closed and the two descended.

 

* * *

 

“I just need you to sign these forms and we can go ahead and get you fully processed for residency at the Acreage.” Madeleine Chapman, one of Dr. Fallengod's lab assistants, tried to keep her hand from shaking as she offered the clipboard to the tall, horrific clown glaring at her _with_ _those_ _god awful_ _eyes and that twisted smile_. The room, in question, was one of Fallengod's patient observation rooms. It was a 320 square foot space with a single patient bed, plain walls, and a substantially large observation window – which looked much like a mirror. This allowed Fallengod to see in, but patients could not see out.

“ _Maddie_ ,” hissed Pennywise. He snatched the clipboard from her hands so fast that she gasped with a jump. “Do you _like_ cotton candy, Maddie?” he asked.

“I need you to fill out the forms,” her voice trembled, trying to avoid eye contact. _If I look at him, he'll tear me apart. I just know it._

Pennywise advanced closer to Madeleine, stepping one leg in front of the other, gently swaying his hips to the left and right, almost as if he were slowly dancing toward the assistant, like a snake slithering up on its prey. The clown backed Madeleine against the wall, just within reach of the door. His chin was nearly right on top of her head as he lifted the clipboard to her nose and asked, “Do you really expect me, Maddie, to go live on a farm? HMM?” Then he jumped backwards, startling Madeleine so badly that she yelped. Pennywise flashed a grin lined with needle-sharp teeth and shouted manically, “SHOULDN'T I INSTEAD BE SENT TO THE CIRCUS, MADDIE?!” He burst into raving laughter that was so deafening, Madeleine had to cup her ears. Pennywise laughed and laughed, pulling the forms out from under the clipboard's metal clip and tossing them into the air like large confetti. “OH BOY! YOU WOULD JUST LOVE IT AT THE CIRCUS MADDIE! POPCORN! RIDES!” He quieted his voice, moving closer again. The papers were scattered on the floor. Pennywise danced over them, in a little tap dance sort of hop, staring hard at the assistant with a vicious hunger in his eyes. He pressed his painted mouth right against Madeleine's ear and asked in a croaky whisper, “Do you like rides, Maddie? Do you want me to take you on a _fun_ ride?”

Madeleine Chapman had always hated clowns. She hated the circus, and to be quite frank, she also hated popcorn. If it wasn't stuck in your teeth, then it was stuck in the back of your throat. She'd spent most of the afternoon trying to get this _thing of her own worst nightmares_ to sign the forms – all at Dr. Fallengod's behest. Nonetheless, the clown had refused her, in addition to the assistants whom preceded her. If Pennywise wasn't impishly bouncing around the room, then he was inside the staff members' heads, reading their fears and manifesting those fears, right then and there. The creature didn't have to reach too far with Madeleine since she'd been a classic coulrophobe since childhood. Merely talking to Pennywise was petrifying enough for her.

However, the staff member on duty prior had it _much_ worse – his greatest fear was being set on fire. The clown had him believing he was tied to a wooden wagon wheel, burning to death for the better half of two hours. His screams finally alerted support staff to storm the room. The door had been barred shut from within by some unexplained force, but they were eventually able to bust it from the hinges. Upon entry, they found the assistant on the floor, shouting, “Oh god! I'm burning! MY SKIN IS BURNING OFF THE BONE!” His extremities were splayed out, spread like eagle's wings, and his head whipped to and fro with every scream. There was no fire. _Nothing_ was burning – but he was convinced of it. Meanwhile, Pennywise sat cross legged on the small bed, gleefully smiling, resting his painted chin in a gloved hand. He blew everyone a kiss as they dragged the screaming assistant away.

The door had since been replaced, along with the lab assistant, but Madeleine Chapman couldn't take it anymore. _This_ was her breaking point. She wasn't about to stick around to find out what it was like to be dragged off, kicking and screaming like a mad man. She promptly opened the door and ducked out. “Let Dr. Fallengod fire me,” she muttered under her breath. “I don't give a shit.”

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING MADDIE?” Pennywise shouted once again. He paced around the room. “THERE WERE GONNA BE ELEPHANTS, AND FIREWORKS, AND FACEPAINTING!” The clown paced around the floor, then paced up the wall. Then he paced along the ceiling, back and forth, back and forth. He paused in the middle of the room, seemingly hanging upside down like a red, white, and orange bat, and slowly turned toward the two-way mirror. “I _see_ you, good doctor....” whispered the clown. He waved.

On the other side of the mirrored window stood Fallengod and Lestat. “We've been trying to send him to the Acreage, but as you can see... we've had little luck. Ever since Pennywise's arrival, he's been combative. We're not even clear on his full capabilities.” The doctor sighed and gave a disapproving glance around the immediate area. “We're not even sure if we can _keep_ him here. I believe he hasn't left yet because he hasn't _chosen_ to leave. Controlling this Rescue has proven to be a ...challenge.”

Lestat crossed his arms. “ _Controlling?_ ”

“Poor choice of words,” Fallengod admitted. “Point being, we're wondering if this Rescue's initial contact – _that_ would be Ms. Shine – would be able to convince him... _IT_... to retire to the Acreage. Medusa has had everything set up. They ran a simulation of an extensive sewer system. We are thinking he would be content there.”

“Doctor,” Lestat said, shaking his head. “Where do _I_ fit into this?”

“I was about to get to that,” nodded Fallengod. “Nuna is... inexperienced. _Vulnerable_. I think she could convince the creature to go. But I don't trust this thing entirely.” Fallengod turned and looked through the window. Pennywise was no longer hanging from the ceiling whispering to the mirror, but instead he'd been doing a handstand on the floor, using a single index finger. His neck ruffs seemed unaffected by gravity, and remained planted around his shoulders. All the while, he sang _God Save the Queen._

“Point taken,” Lestat said.

“You're close to Nuna. Your job will be to buffer some distance between her and this entity. Don't let her get too close. This Rescue has already made some disturbing contact with her psyche. But that was before she gained its trust.”

“Understood,” Lestat nodded.

The two sighed, then turned back toward the mirrored window. Much to their dismay, however unshockingly, Pennywise was no longer doing handstands, singing the British national anthem. He was gone.

 


	9. The Bathroom Dance

Nuna dreamed. She'd tossed and turned all night, but no amount of thrashing beneath her sheets was bound to wake her. Nuna Shine dreamed – and she dreamed deep. She dreamed deeply of a _place_ , an abyssal place. It was one of the most vivid dreams she'd had since... _who could recall?_

She walked along the shoreline of a sea that writhed and screamed beneath the churning dark clouds of an overhead storm. Nuna walked through the walls and sheets of rain that beat against her, soaking the thin shroud which covered her body. The cottony fabric stuck to her form, clinging to Nuna like a second skin. Her hair, beaded with pointed jewels, moved with the lashes of the wind as the sand around her feet funneled with every bewitching step. Nuna stepped, then skipped, then hopped, then she flew from her feet – floating through the air as the tips of her toes delicately drifted across the wet sand, leaving behind snakelike trails awaiting their erasure by the vehemence of the wind and rain. The storm in the distance spun higher and higher, raising the very ocean with it until the clouds disappeared into the cosmos above. All that was left was the summery, apricot glow of the sun as it warmed the dry, empty muck once blanketed by the sea.

“I've brought you a cake,” said a little girl. She was dressed in sandals and a full length shawl, covered in a tiered fringe woven from the hide of a goat. Her black hair was styled in extravagant braids, bejeweled with tiny baubles that glinted like stars.

Nuna looked at the cake. It was unleavened flour and sugar cane. _Somehow_ she knew this.

It smelled of ash.

“Thank you, child,” Nuna replied. “I bless you with strength.” She heard the words escape her own lips, but she did not understand why she had said them. Nuna did not understand the meaning of any of this. In that moment, the little girl knelt in the sand and leaned forward, stretching her arms out over her bowed head, as if in reverence. _As if she prostrated herself before a god._

Frozen in a submissive bend, the little girl muttered, “Nin-an-ak.” And in that moment, the wind blew. Like ashes on a pyre, the girl's body floated away on its current. Dissolved of her shape, the child dissipated against the orange horizon.

Dropping the cake, Nuna looked to her feet. The sandy terrain split and cracked wide, like a wicked mouth. It swallowed her. Down she fell, plunging through darkness, deeper into the pitch that waited below and enveloped her from above. The sunlight glinted out of sight as she entered a womb of swelling blackness. Nuna landed chest-down on a cold stony floor. She could only _feel_ it – she _saw_ nothing aside from the void of obsidian which boundlessly spread out before her.

“Help me...” begged a voice.

It was a man's voice. Familiar, but distant.

“ _You_ have imprisoned me here! _Help me..._ ”

Nuna's eyes strained, but the shadows overpowered the light. There _was_ _no_ light. This place was blacker than sin, darker than devilry.

“They're _watching_ you,” said a different voice. This voice was also familiar. It croaked in a dizzying, harebrained sort of way. “OH NUNA SHINE!” It shouted. “They're always watching you. Always, always, always, _ALWAYS!_ ” The voice abruptly stopped. Something skittered around in the dark, like a creature with far too many legs.

Nuna stood. Boldly putting one foot in front of the other, she walked with the hope that there would soon come an end to this place. She walked with the hope that there would soon be a hint of light, _any light_ , in this eternal, dormant blackness. _An escape._

Something growled in the dark. Then... it _brushed_ past Nuna. It was large and powerful – the press of its body against her thigh nearly knocked her off balance. The thing was robust and quite ... _warm_. Whatever creature it was, its form trembled with bellows that roared against the shadows, interspersed with a hissing that seemed _not_ to be directed at Nuna. They were directed at... something else. Something farther off in the distance. It was... _protecting_... her.

“They're watching you, Nuna...” It rasped. The thing slunk around her and protectively pressed against her again. Steadying herself, Nuna held out her hand, wondering if this creature would snap it off. Around her fingers, something wet and warm coiled with the mobility of a serpent. A lick, perhaps? And then... _It was gone_.

“ _Nuna... wake up...”_ A different voice. Far away. Even _more_ familiar.

“ _Wake up, Nuna!”_

Nuna Shine sat straight up in her bed. Delirious, she spied a hint of sunlight inching through the blinds of her bedroom window. The operative shook her head, all the while there was a firm _pounding_ at her apartment door.

“NUNA! Wake UP!” a voice yelled on the other side of the door.

_Lestat?_

Rubbing her eyes, she swung her legs out of bed and stood, albeit uneasily. Nuna tried to make sense of the shapes around her in the room. Her vision was still adjusting to consciousness after having been jarred from such a deep, unnerving dream. As images slowly came into focus, she could have sworn she saw the briefest apparition of a white and red smiling face floating on the other side of her bedroom window. She rubbed her eyes a second time and looked once more. There was nothing there aside from the usual trees which lined the building's landscaping.

The pounding at the door grew louder – more impatient.

“I'm coming!” announced Nuna. “Let me get dressed first...”

 

* * *

 

“You look _dreadful_ , Ch _ér_ ie.” Lestat shook his head at Nuna. The two of them sat across from one another at a table in a small coffee shop just up the block from her apartment. He intently watched her sip at the steaming cup of black coffee she gripped like a lifeline in her hand. Lestat breathed deep, taking in the aroma but never indulging in the beverage, itself. There was only _one_ libation the vampire enjoyed as a drink and it certainly wasn't procured from an exotic bean.

Humans were plentiful on the Nexus, albeit off limits. Lestat didn't _hunt_ anymore. He was simply _fed_. Fed through a stockpile of blood donations delivered to his plebeian living quarters – a one bedroom apartment not too unlike Nuna's. How he missed _the hunt._ The thrill of it. The excitement. _The sensuality._ Lestat yearned to taste the crescendo of a frightened pulse beneath the bite of his fangs – _if only one more time._ Trembling skin. Quivering. Paralytic. Thinking about it set his muscles tense with arousal. How he missed it. If only he could _do it one more time –_ like in the old days. New Orleans. Paris. _Louis..._

“Haven't been sleeping so great...” Nuna weakly shook her head. Then she leaned back in her chair, nursing the coffee as she listened to Lestat bring her up to speed regarding Fallengod's task at hand. In agreement, she recognized the importance of aiding her most recent Rescue for transition to the Acreage. She knew there was little other option for a creature like Pennywise. _Creature... no. Can't think of it like that. Him. Can't think of him like that..._

“Unfortunately,” added Lestat, “he's disappeared. Fallengod's team still hasn't devised a way to contain him. That oversized harlequin could be haunting about _anywhere–_ ”

“– _Yes_ , by the way.”

Lestat blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Yes,” repeated Nuna. “I _would_ like to go to dinner.”

The vampire smirked. “Changed your mind?”

She took another sip of coffee. “Yeah. Maybe... I was being unfair before...”

Lestat scrunched his face as if he'd bitten into a lemon. Lifting his index finger and thumb in the shape of a small C, he sassily replied, “A _smidge_.” The vampire lowered his hand, then grinned. “Considering I don't _eat_ , find yourself privileged to be wined and dined by a person of my... _brand_.” He pulled a silver watch on a fancy chain from the inner pocket of his lavish coat. Lestat frowned. “I really must depart, Ch _ér_ ie.” He stood, leaning forward, taking Nuna's hand and gently kissing it. “Tonight,” he whispered against the skin of her knuckle. “Eight o'clock at _The Hummingbird._ Do wear something... _graceful_.” The vampire let go of her hand and turned away. He glanced over his shoulder and added, “Until then... _adieu_.”

Nuna watched the blond, long-haired aristocrat nimbly make his exit through the growing sum of coffee-hungry patrons now crowding the cafe. They seemed to have flooded through the doorway like flies seeking shade on a summer day. _Morning rush,_ thought Nuna. It occurred to her that she should use the bathroom _now –_ before the dreaded _line_ begins to form. It was only a one-person bathroom behind a locked door. Nuna gulped down the remainder of her coffee, the last of which tasted _burnt_ – but for some reason she preferred it that way. Lifting her bag, she stood and tossed the cup into the nearest bin, hastily making her way toward the promisingly vacant restroom. Reaching its door, she slipped inside, locking the handle behind her.

Nuna sighed with relief. The owner of the cafe took great strides to transform a place to shit into an admittedly _cozy_ place to shit. The lighting was soft, the paint job was a warm palette of colors like burnt orange, violet, and hunter green. The décor was stocked with everything from antique knickknacks lining handmade, dark wood wall shelves, to shabby chic vases bursting with autumn flowers. (Flowers which somehow made the place smell pleasant, in spite of the _true_ use for the room – and in a place that served coffee and bran muffins, no less!)

Nuna set down her things and looked into the mirror. Lestat was right. She _did_ look dreadful. Her eyes were bloodshot, the bottoms of which were shaded by considerably dark circles. _Raccoon face_. Nuna's hair even looked like it hadn't slept well – it was undeniably _limp_.

But her lips!

They caught Nuna's eye. Her lips looked absolutely rosy. Pink and plump – plumper than usual. She turned her head from side to side, pursing her mouth with comical vanity. _Wait a moment._ Were her lips now... _darker?_ Or so her reflection had shown – her lips were indeed growing rosier. Deeper red. And in the corners of her mouth, as if an invisible paintbrush worked its magic, red lines stroked up the median of her cheeks, higher and higher... just above her eyes. _My eyes!_ Nuna's eyes were no longer green. They glowed. It was an eerily familiar sight. Furthermore, her limp hair had suddenly been replaced by a lush, orange crown of strands that stood straight up in every which direction. A wild mane of brilliant tangerine hues sitting atop the broad, cracked, pasty white forehead of Pennywise the Dancing Clown.

The extra-dimensional creature materialized through the glass of the mirror, stepping one long leg over the sink, bringing his red, black, and white crosshatched, jingling boot down onto the bathroom floor. He pulled the rest of his extremities through, presenting himself in his full jester-like accoutrement.

All the while, Nuna backed up to give him a wide berth, dropping her jaw with a gasp. The operative's face bore an expression mixed with burden and curiosity. “ _Gray...?_ ” she whispered.

Pennywise rolled his eyes and nodded, “Ah. Yes. _That_ dull nickname. How could I EVER forget it? Yes. It's me, Nuna Shine. Miss Nuna. Nuna balloon-ah!” From nowhere, he procured a single, red balloon, smiled devilishly, and handed it to her as if it were a gift. Across the balloon read the words: **I** **♥ Nuna Shine.**

“Thank...you?” As soon as Nuna's fingers touched the soft, red silk of the balloon's ribbon – it popped with an unnaturally loud bang. The sound rang out like a gunshot.

Pennywise threw his head back and laughed hysterically. “POP!” he barked. Giggling, the clown covered his toothy grin, laughing into his glove.

Frustrated, Nuna asked through clenched teeth, “ _Why_ are you here?”

Pennywise lowered his hand from his mouth, smiling almost apologetically. “Here...” he took Nuna's hand, sliding a smooth, round object into her palm. “This one won't pop.”

She opened her hand and looked down. In her palm was a small glass sphere – like a solid snowglobe, or perhaps a paperweight. Frozen inside of it was a tiny, single, red balloon – about as tall as a thimble. “What's this?” she asked.

“A carnival prize!” he shouted with another giggle. Pennywise calmed himself once again. With a sly grin, he added, “It's for you, Nuna Shine. Keep it.”

Unsure that she should even accept this strange thing from such a creature, Nuna slid the sphere into her bag. _Not a creature, Nuna. Treat him as a person. At least try..._

“Gray... now that I have your attention...”

Pennywise tilted his head, grinning quizzically.

“Is there any way I can convince you to go to the Acreage?”

The clown's grin faded. His face grew solemn, as if it had suddenly darkened. He towered over Nuna with his frilly neckline just at eye level with the young operative. Pennywise tapped a finger to his chin, then frowned. “To the Acreage, you say? Am I to be put out to pasture like an old mare?”

“No! Not at all!” she said defensively. “It's just that–”

He interrupted her impending persuasive argument by breaking into a verse of _**Old Grey Mare**_.

“Gray, _please!_ ” Nuna moved her hands up and down in a _lower your voice_ sort of gesture. Little did she realize that the rest of the cafe heard absolutely nothing coming from the bathroom. And that would be all they heard – or saw – as long as the clown willed it to be so.

Pennywise grinned, shooting a wink at Nuna. “Ah! So that's why you choose that horrid little nickname for me!” He continued singing the song.

_Ain't what she used to be!_

_Ain't what she used to be!_

Nuna reached for the soft fabric of his white and silver sleeve, tugging at it to make him stop. His arm jingled with the sound of tiny bells as she moved it vigorously up and down.

Pennywise stopped. Placing his hand over hers – the one which tugged at his clothing – he said skeptically, “You saved me from a prison, Nuna Shine. But now you would send me to another?” His touch was unexpectedly warm. Even _gentle_. She had the inkling that this was a behavior he solely set aside for _her._ Then she felt the thick fabric of his white gloves interlace between the spaces of her fingers, locking his hand into hers. With a soft squeeze, he drew Nuna closer, almost in the type of embrace one would begin with a waltz. “They're watching you, Nuna Shine. They're watching _us_.” His breath on her forehead was as equally as warm as his touch.

Nuna felt a calming sensation wash over her, which seemed an uncharacteristic response to this type of creature. His breath, however, had the faintest smell of blood. She suspected he'd eaten recently, which didn't bode well for his chances to even remain at the Acreage. If this Rescue was killing people... and eating them... then NERF was soon to find out. Pennywise would become a Failed Rescue, risking deportation or even termination – if they even knew how to terminate something like him. Something like It.

He pulled her closer and swayed.

“How do you know about my dream?” she asked. “Telepathy again? Were you... _watching?_ ”

“I was,” he confessed. “But not just watching. _I was there –_ with you.”

A realization struck Nuna. “You were the creature in the dark?”

At this point she'd been pressed against him. They swayed in tandem, performing a small dance together – sort of a ridiculous thing to do in a cafe bathroom, but what _other_ manner of things could one expect from eldritch clown entities? Pennywise's throat purred with a satisfied growl as he rested his chin on the limp hair covering the top of Nuna's head. His grin widened a bit as he whispered, “Yes, Nuna Shine.” He swayed a bit more, his hand still interlocked with hers. “Something _afflicts_ you...” he murmured deeply. “Something is _not right_ about _you,_ Nuna Shine...” Pennywise lifted his chin from her head, let go of her hand, and put two steps of distance between their bodies. He demonstrated a gentlemanly bow, lifted his head, and said, “And I intend to find out what it is!” With the snap of two fingers, Pennywise the ( _slow_ ) Dancing Clown disappeared in a flare of cackling laughter.

 


	10. All Choked Up

Patrick Bateman sat uncomfortably in a taupe wicker chair, his ass aching from the inadequacy of its hunter green seat cushion. He'd found himself seated outside, in a courtyard with lush gardenscapes which appeared to be meticulously maintained. There were countless rows of rose bushes – every color of rose _and then some._ Overhead, massive trees canopied the area, while ivy greenery webbed across fanciful trelliswork. Birds chirped and sang from unseen nooks in the foliage and, all the while, Patrick impatiently checked his Audemars Piguet watch.

A tall woman with coffee cream skin and long, black hair approached from a nearby patio. The patio was connected to a larger office building. NERF headquarters. Patrick immediately recognized her face – which was a feat for him. Facial recognition had been something with which he'd often struggled back in his _old life_. She walked briskly across the stony pathway leading from the patio to the garden area. Taking a seat in an identical wicker chair, she smiled broadly while setting aside a clipboard and pen on a nearby side table.

Dr. Fallengod. She'd been the one to rehabilitate Patrick, helping him to understand that his previous existence had been a fabrication. What was intriguing to Patrick was the fact that he had, all along, suspected everything to be a hallucination. Turned out that _Patrick Bateman was_ _right_ – he'd never actually _killed_ all those people. So many years of believing it, but doubting it in the same breath. _Finally_ , some peace of mind.

But now the question begged the meaning of this meeting. His therapy with Fallengod had ended decades ago. However, Patrick was occasionally called in, not for counseling services, but to provide _assistance_ with some of NERF's more obscure... _classified..._ needs. Patrick Bateman wasn't a rapist serial killer anymore (not that he ever was – it was all a figment of his imagination), but as Fallengod had once told him... _why let such talents go to waste?_ He could tell, just by looking at her. There was that _need_ behind those chocolate, doe-like eyes of hers. _I need you Patrick. I need you to do what we're not at liberty to do. I need this off the record. I need this to be kept quiet._ It had been the same request, different scenario, each and every time. And sure enough...

“Your services are vital to us,” began Fallengod.

Patrick maintained a calm, almost unimpressed, demeanor. There was, however, a hint of a smile inching up from the corners of his mouth. He never unleashed it, however. Always a poker face, masking sadistic delight. Fallengod often began her requests in this way. Meeting in a cozy place. A stale compliment, littered with obvioushoods.

“We've had a long history together,” she added.

Then came the brief reminiscing. How Patrick was found, rescued, and brought back. How she worked with him, day and night, to get his mind back on track. To _deprogram_ him.

“I want in, whatever it is,” he said dryly. Patrick crossed one leg over the other and adjusted his solid red Armani tie.

Fallengod pressed her lips together and nodded. “I knew I could count on your services, Patrick.”

“Enough,” he grinned. The smile finally made its way out, albeit in the form of a reserved smirk. “What do you need from me?”

“At this point,” began Fallengod, “we want you on standby. We're working to subdue a Rescue that has been rather... _out of control_. And, trust me, that's an understatement.”

“So you want me to control it,” he nodded.

Fallengod's jaw dropped slightly as she huffed a short, derisive laugh. “I don't believe _you_ can control this one, Patrick...”

His heavy brow line furrowed. Patrick shook his head. “Then what do you want from me?”

Fallengod cleared her throat. “We're working on a plan. We have something set in place to ...manage... the Rescue in question. It's a new sort of technology that NERF has been working on. Testing has been... _rushed_ , however. But results have been favorable, in spite of that. So far we're convinced it should work. We want you on standby to secure a way to bait the trap, so to speak.”

“ _Trap_ is such an ugly word, isn't it, doctor?” his smiled widened a bit.

Fallengod nodded with the faintest expression of guilt in her eyes. An expression that only those like Bateman could detect. It was almost as if she'd practiced how to suffocate it. “We haven't worked out the details just yet. As far as we can tell, this Rescue enjoys feeding on others...”

“Excuse me?” Patrick didn't like the sound of that.

“No worries – you're not the carrot on the string.” Fallengod sighed. “We've discovered a number of operatives killed in their homes. Some were dragged down into the public sewer. It–” Jessie Fallengod nearly choked on her own words. She stared, beyond Patrick, up at the birds flitting about the greenery overhead. Perched on a tree branch was an orange-feathered falcon, covered in what appeared to be dirty water and black mud. It had a dead gray squirrel clutched under the talons of its left foot. Its beak dug through the creature's furry torso, stripping away meat from bone. The bird's bony muzzle snapped at something inside of the squirrel and tugged, harder and harder. With a sickening rip, the falcon lifted its head, holding a severed human finger between its beak. The bird glared at Dr. Fallengod with eyes that flickered, then promptly flew off.

She could have sworn she'd heard laughter.

“Doctor?” said Patrick.

Fallengod stood, her eyes still fixed on the sky above. “Standby, Mister Bateman. I want you ready to be _on the move_ at any moment.”

 

* * *

 

Dinner at _The Hummingbird_ went well, or so Nuna had decided. Lestat de Lioncourt was a cordial dinner date who, being from another time as he was, had all but thrown his coat over a puddle so she could step across. The restaurant, itself, was highly upscale. Aside from the entrees' outrageous pricing, the food, itself, had been prepared with the utmost culinary dexterity. Nuna sampled dishes like salmon en papillote, quiche lorraine, bouillabaisse, and for dessert she'd been served a fluffy pastry swollen with sugary sweet custard. It was called a _croquembouche_. All of this had been French cuisine, of course. Nuna enjoyed these delicacies, though they weren't her usual style – _coffee and a donut_. Assuredly, Lestat wanted to showcase meals from his home country. She expected nothing less. And all the while, since the vampire couldn't indulge himself, he kept his ladyfriend entertained with colorful anecdotes of his escapades in Paris. Beyond that, freckled in between his picturesque reminiscences, Lestat occasionally looked up from the table with those lustrous, blue eyes, snapped his fingers, and beckoned to the waiter, _M_ _onsieur - plus de vin!_ By the fourth glass of _Romanée_ - _Conti_ _,_ Nuna understood the phrase had been a simple request for _more wine_.

Her head began to swim a little, and along with that her laughter at the Parisian tales of yester-century increased in volume. Before Nuna knew it, Lestat was tossing money at the waiter while helping her out of her chair. In the utmost gentlemanly manner, the vampire draped the operative's coat over the red evening dress he'd sent to her apartment just two hours prior to the commencement of their date. The simple, but elegant, dress had been delivered with a handwritten note which read, Ch _ér_ ie  _\- I wanted you to wear something graceful, but how can I trust anyone else's taste but my own?_

Off the two went, exiting _The Hummingbird_ , emerging back into the small, chilly world of Nexus, traipsing along the sidewalk into the direction of Lestat's nearby apartment. Nuna wanted this. She didn't even bother to ask if she _could_ come up. She simply took the vampire's hand, allowing him to lead the way. He _was_ beautiful, she realized. Those piercing eyes, the thick, blond hair – even the hint of his cologne, which Nuna couldn't identify but the aroma bore a mixture of scents like sandalwood, leather, and rose petals. The two barged into his living quarters, shaking off their coats, already locked in a passionate kiss. Lestat's lips pressed into Nuna's, hungrily moving against hers as his hands pulled the thin straps of her dress from her naked shoulders. With effortless strength, he lifted her to the wall. Nuna locked her legs around his waist.

Lestat eagerly panted into her ear. “I've been waiting for _this_ , Ch _ér_ ie.”

“Shut _up_ ,” she laughed, still drunk from the French wine. Her red dress was now on the floor. Lestat's thin, fanciful shirt had been opened down to his navel. His smooth, cream-colored chest pressed Nuna flatter against the wall, her arms now raised above her head. She wasn't fully nude by this point – neither of them were. The operative was still clothed in her undergarments – a strapless red bra and a pair of red panties. Of course, the bottom half wasn't quite the same shade of red as the dress nor the bra, but she made due with what she could in her haste to prepare for the night out. Nevertheless, through their thin cotton crotch she could feel Lestat's erection grow ever-harder against the soft exterior between her legs. Nuna moaned gently into his ear. He pressed his groin into her even more at the sound of her voice.

As the vampire gyrated his body against hers, his tender kisses slowly pecked up and down Nuna's neck. Her breathing slowed as she enjoyed every moment of his attention. That and, again, _the wine_. Wine sure slowed the world around them, at least from her perspective. It was in that moment her mind wandered to the realization that he _was_ a blood drinker, after all. Though Lestat had been devout in his ability to resist _the hunt –_ there was no question of that. So as the realization gripped her about as tightly as the vampire now gripped her to him, Nuna heard the words escape her lips. “ _Bite me..._ ” She'd whispered it so softly – _and so quickly_ – that for a moment the operative wondered if she'd ever uttered the phrase at all.

Lestat's gyrations slowed a bit, still keeping a rhythm of movement, albeit a leisurely one. Pulling his head back from her neck, his eyes locked intensely with Nuna's. “ _Bite_ you?” he asked. “Are you _sure?_ ” It had been a long time since he'd been requested to do such a thing. There were a few humans scattered throughout the Nexus with which Lestat had coupled – and even _fewer_ of them had requested the same. And, oh, how he gladly obliged when requested. The vampire longingly enjoyed the taste of their blood though it took everything within him to _stop drinking_ when it was, indeed, **time to stop**.

“I _trust_ you,” Nuna whispered, this time a bit louder. “I _want_ you, Lestat!” She was no longer whispering. The wine had finally taken over.

The vampire smirked a little, looking her face up and down, scanning it for any hint of second thoughts. “I wouldn't normally, but if you insist...” He tightened his grip around Nuna, wrenching her closer, almost in a rough, unromantic, sort of way. She had never felt such raw power in a man before, and drunkenly wondered if she'd made a mistake. But it was too late to say much else. Lestat already had his mouth planted to her neck, for it takes little to no convincing a vampire to sample one's blood. Nuna felt the slight points of his teeth against her skin. He'd even salivated a bit down her neck, in heavy anticipation of biting down and drinking _something so sweet, so fresh_ – not that bagged crap that had already gone stale by the time it made its way to his home.

Nuna felt the teeth sink deeper as the pressure against her jugular intensified. This moment proved to be sobering, because it was in this moment – _this very second his teeth had broken through the skin_ – that Nuna regretted what she had said. It hurt. That fucking biting – it fucking hurt. Her entire neck went hot. Flushing with inflammation, Nuna's body tensed up, sounding the internal alarm bells, rushing a wave of blood and edema to the crook of her neck. And perhaps that was the point, wasn't it? Vampires enjoyed tasting the _rush of fear_ in their victims' heartbeats. But the victims had to be willing up until that magic moment, didn't they? Not that Nuna was a _victim_ – she knew, deep down, Lestat was only giving her a taste and nothing more. And such a thing was per her request, in spite of the fact that she now silently clung to him, wishing she'd never said a damn thing. _What will the bruising look like tomorrow?_ Nuna wasn't very turned on, anymore.

Overwhelmed with exhilaration, Lestat's mind nearly burst from his own head as he felt the skin deliciously break beneath his fangs. Then came that soothing, warm flow against his lips, his taste buds anticipating its accompanying coppery flavor. But something choked the vampire. A warmth flooded through his mouth alright. A rushing sensation trickled across his tongue, _yes –_ but the flavor? It wasn't what he'd expected. It tasted of... embers. Hot and burning. Like slag. Fresh soot. Wet, _yes_. Warm, _yes_. But this was not the taste of blood. Whatever it was, it tasted **old** _, like relics rotting in his throat._ Lestat quickly backed away, dropping Nuna to the floor. He fell to his knees and choked, bringing up bursts of red vomit with every other heave.

After hitting the floor, Nuna stood, yelling, “What the fuck!” Then she saw Lestat crawling along the the colorful zigzag design of his area rug, clutching at his throat. He gagged and wheezed, as if he'd been suffering an allergic reaction.

“He- _elp_...” he gasped.

“Holy shit.” Nuna stood there, staring at him as he squirmed and retched. “What's happening?!” she cried.

“Probably the same thing that happened to me!” giggled a voice.

Nuna spun around. Pennywise was standing right there. Right fucking there! In the apartment! He'd been leaning against that same wall where all the kissing had taken place. Arms crossed. Grinning with a brazenly sadistic enjoyment as he watched the vampire pant and spew all along the floor.

“The fuck are you doing here!” yelled Nuna.

Pennywise playfully bit his lower lip and approached her, almost nose-to-nose. “Those are bold words for someone without any pants!”

Nuna's eyes popped and she snatched the dress from the floor, wrestling it over her head, desperately covering herself.

Lestat seemed to have regurgitated the last of any remaining contents in his gut. He rolled onto his side, breathing deeply, wondering why in all of God's creation there was _that fucking red headed fool_ standing beside Nuna. He lifted his hand, pointing. “Y- _you_...” he sputtered.

“Y- _yes_ ,” Pennywise said, his reply dripping with insult. “L-Lestat s-sounds l-like s-someone I kn-know!” He laughed so hard he had to put a hand on Nuna's shoulder to steady himself. “Ahhh...” the clown attempted to calm his amusement. “I'm sorry to interrupt your _little evening_ , but it looks like the two of you weren't hitting it off so well, anyway!” He walked over to the vampire and kneeled down, smiling at Lestat with a disgust in his glowing eyes. “OH LITTLE UNDEAD MAN – she was nice and _drunk_ for you, wasn't she?”

Lestat stumbled to his feet. Still breathing deep, he asked in a smoother tone, “I demand to know why you're here. Do you wish to negotiate your relocation?”

Pennywise walked back to Nuna's side. “I don't _negotiate_ , little blood drinker.” He took Nuna's hand in his. “I'm here for her.”

“Wait. _What?_ ” asked Lestat.

“ _What?_ ” echoed Nuna.

And, just like that, both the clown and the operative blipped out of sight, leaving Lestat standing there alone, in a puddle of his own bloody vomit.

 


	11. Through the Looking Glass

“There are other dimensions like _this_...” Pennywise admitted. “Tearing the veils which seal them off is quite easy.” His gravelly voice reverberated in a dreamlike sort of way. Cross-legged, the clown hovered like a Tibetan monk. With arms resting on his criss-crossed knees, he leisurely floated around what appeared to be a ... _void_. All around, as far as the eye could see, was a curtain of black, speckled with stardust. The blackness had been draped from one end of infinity to the other, strung with a cosmological web of astronomical debris. Asteroidal runoff sparkled along the intricate webbing like interstellar dew. Spheres of unidentified planetoids and moons floated in the background, presumably light years away. The place wasn't very dark, either. Along the farthest backdrop – as far away as... _eternity?_ – a warm, tangerine hue of zodiacal light splashed across the boundless continuum of this mysteriously limitless, albeit _intimate_ , vacuity.

“You've been hiding here?” asked Nuna. Her voice reverberated as well. She walked toward Pennywise, but her feet never touched any surface. She, too, was floating. The clown had uncrossed his legs and moved closer, reaching for her hand. Unsure of her footing, Nuna reached back. The two locked fingers.

Pennywise tugged ever so slightly, drawing Nuna closer. “Yes...” he grinned down at her.

“Why have you brought me here?” she asked. “Are you planning to... to _kill_ me? What do you want?”

Ignoring her questions, his typically manic expression fell solemn. “Why _him?_ ”

“ _Who?_ ”

Pennywise's wickedly arched brows tightly knit together over his fiery eyes. “That little fanged man!” Placing the back of his hand against his broad, white forehead, he sarcastically posed an impression of Nuna. _“OH LESTAT! I WANT YOU!”_

“I didn't say it like that!” she snapped back.

Pennywise lowered his hand and smiled. He pulled her closer – so close that the croaky whispers of his hot breath danced across the bridge of her nose. “What do you even _see_ in such a blood guzzling little _sanguisuge_?”

Nuna huffed. “Are you... _jealous?_ ”

Inching her closer, the clown's gloved hand slid up the small of Nuna's back, just above the vertex of the large V on the back of her red dress. He delicately whispered against the soft skin of her temple. _“Answer my question...”_

“I don't know,” she confessed. His neck ruffs moved with his steady breathing, brushing against her chin in a balanced rhythm. “The night was... _lovely_. The food tasted _so good_. I _really_ enjoyed myself for the first time in a long time. Well.. I _thought_ I was enjoying myself.” She sighed. “Lestat can be _very_ _charming_...”

Pennywise gestured to her bleeding, punctured neck. “Charming...?”

“Yeah. Well... _that_ was my fault. I regret it now.” She tried to touch the swollen bite, but her hand recoiled. “ _Tss!_ It fucking hurts...”

The clown lifted his brows. “Hurts? There is ...pain?”

“Yes.”

Pennywise gently touched two fingertips to the raised wound on Nuna's neck. She winced. He pulled his fingers back a moment. “ _Steady_...” he soothed. Placing his fingers back on the wound, his expression softened as he inspected it. The clown brushed the soft fabric of his glove over the bite marks, causing the punctures to slowly fade until Nuna's skin was once again smooth. “There,” he grinned. “Now... there's no more pain.”

Nuna rubbed at the spot on her neck. The bites were gone. That hot thrumming which stung more than a handful of wasps had disappeared. Stunned, she asked, “Why did you do that?”

“I've felt pain before,” he confided. “It was the first time I'd ever been afraid.” With an affectionate hand, he caressed her healed neck. For a moment, the clown eyed the fine job he'd done on the skin. He had _a way with skin_. Then, Pennywise locked eyes with Nuna. His voice was genuine when he reasoned, “I owe you this much, Nuna Shine!”

Nuna wasn't quite sure what compelled her to do so, but she slid her arms around Pennywise's slender waist and hugged him. The clown drew a small, surprised breath. He stammered a bit, then wrapped his lanky arms around her, pulling her very close, returning the embrace. His body felt warm. Very warm. What writhed beneath that silvery suit of ruffles and makeup – Nuna could only guess. But whatever it was, it radiated heat. And at the moment of her touch? It amplified.

“Do you come here and ... _stay_... in this form?” she asked, her cheek pressed to his chest. A large, orange pompom squished against her face.

“Form?”

“The clown.”

“No...”

Nuna pulled her head back and inquisitively stared up at Pennywise. “What do you _really_ look like?”

He gave a sniff with that red nose of his. “I look like... _well..._ ” Pausing, the clown _very_ _softly_ illuminated. From head to toe, like a nightlight, a coral glow brightened from somewhere _wholly abyssal_ deep inside of him. “I am light. Radiant. Glowing. I am everywhere at once.” The illumination dimmed, then stopped.

“Light?” She smiled. “It must be beautiful. I'd love to see that.”

“ **No.** ” Pennywise's voice was clear and cutting.

“Why not?”

He let go of Nuna. Floating a bit of distance between himself and this _foolish_ _woman._ “It would be the last thing you see.”

“I don't understand.”

“Exactly. You wouldn't understand. It is not meant to be understood.” He turned his back on her.

Nuna crossed her arms. “So why am I here?” Before Pennywise could answer, she spotted something in the background drifting through the void. _Bones_. Human bones. Scattered, not whole. Gnawed. Tossed aside like an old chicken dinner. It dawned on her. Nuna suddenly became all too aware. _This_ was the place he'd been taking them. _His prey_. The clown _had_ been hunting people after all. Back in the cafe, Nuna thought she'd smelled blood on his breath. Pointing to the remains, she said, “Am I here to die? I'm your next meal? Is _that_ it?”

“ _No..._ ” he hissed.

“Then what is it? Why drag me to this place?”

“Your blood,” he said, his voice as serious as stone. “It _is not_ human. You _think_ you're human, but that cannot be.”

Nuna's expression twisted angrily. “What does that even mean? I've been human all my life! How can I not be human?”

Pennywise shrugged. “I struggle to read you, Nuna Shine. Something blocks me. But I can _smell_ it on you. The old. The rotting. The ash. Don't you want to find out what you are?” He turned and floated back toward her. “Don't you want to find out why _Mister Blondie Vampire_ can't handle a little blood?”

Nuna was admittedly perplexed by that. She knew as well as anyone that Lestat thrived off of human blood – yet he couldn't stomach hers? It made no sense. Couple that with the clown's as equally as ugly reaction to it back in Derry and, well, Nuna _had_ to concede to her curiosities. “Yes,” she admitted.

“Your memories are _paltry_ ,” said Pennywise. “There's a wall of sorts. It's inside you. It's very strong. I can't get past it by simply _tuning in_ as I normally do. _But..._ ”

“But?”

“Your _fear_ is stronger. There's a lesson to be learned in it.” He devilishly chuckled. “There's a lesson to be learned from every fear, really. The child that fears the water must have, at one time, been leaning too far over the **boat**. Ignoring a lifetime of warnings, of cautionary tales – stupid, _stupid!_ ” Laughing, he shook his big head. Pennywise took a deep breath and added, “I want to explore your fear, Nuna Shine. _Once_ more.”

She shook her head. “N-no.”

“Don't _you_ start stuttering on me,” he grinned, then took her hand. “I'll be right there with you!”

“I know,” she nodded. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

“I will _walk_ you through it,” he clarified. The clown indignantly gestured to her neck. “Nuna... please. _Trust_ me.”

“You're a man-eating, evil entity that uses people's fears to make them go insane,” she declared. “And you want me to _trust_ you?”

“Yes.”

She scoffed. “Bold assumption.” Then Nuna's thoughts circled back to Lestat. The blood. The vomiting. It really _was_ disconcerting. “Fine.” She gripped Pennywise's hand. “Gray,” she said, “don't make me regret this.”

The clown pulled her closer, then cupped both of his hands to her slender jawline. His plump, red lips brushed against Nuna's left cheek. “Let's return to this fear of yours...” he rasped against her skin.

 

* * *

 

Morning came. Lestat had to hurry. Nuna could be in trouble. Dead. _Anything_. He didn't know. The vampire zipped through the NERF headquarters like a bee searching for a flower. He had to tell _the three_ what was happening. Meanwhile, terrible thoughts _hurricaned_ through his head. He'd failed at his mission to keep Nuna buffered from that damned clown. He'd failed at charming the very underpants off his dinner date. _(Though he got close – oh so close!)_ And worst of all, he'd _failed_ at drinking and digesting blood! His very livelihood! _Tu es un putain d'échec, Lestat!_

Stopping outside of the door to _the three's_ office, the vampire took a deep breath. He attempted to straighten his sleeves and check his coat buttons to make sure everything was presentable. But before he could open the office door, Fallengod happened to be walking down the corridor, calling his name.

“Sorry.” Lestat held up a hand, then he motioned quickly to the door. “It's Nuna. I have to report to _them_ at the moment. I simply _cannot_ chat, doctor.”

Fallengod slipped in between him and the door handle. “They haven't summoned you. What do you need to report, Lestat?”

He blinked those piercing eyes of his and hastily explained to Dr. Fallengod the events that had taken place at his apartment. Admittedly, to protect his and Nuna's jobs, Lestat omitted the portions of the night involving the wanton removal of a beautiful, red dress and ... _attempted..._ blood drinking. Nuna had simply been around for a professional meeting to catch up on information. _Yes. Strictly business._

Statuesque, Fallengod listened intently, without so much as a nod or a change in her general, stoic expression. “So what you're saying is that Nuna has been _abducted_ ,” she concluded. There was a restrained twitch in her left eye. Lestat barely noticed it. He was far too disarranged.

The vampire nodded. “That's what I've been saying!” He tried to reach for the door handle, angling his arm around Fallengod's hip. “Now would you please–”

“–Gather operatives. We'll form a search party. We _cannot_ lose Nu… an-another operative.” Fallengod waved the vampire away. “I'll report this to _the three,_ myself.”

“ _Fine_ ,” said Lestat. “I'll find Bates.”

 

* * *

 

Nuna found herself back in the brightly lit bedroom. The bed with that same lacy, white sheeting was in its original position – neatly made, its simple headboard pushed against an empty, off-white wall. The window on the opposite side of the room dominated most of the adjacent wall like a square, yawning mouth. From the window, a dimly distorted impression of the room projected itself on wide display. _They're watching you._ Nuna's heart quickened as she stared into the glassy, askew reflection of her own face. The operative kept her back frozen to the wall. “Gray...” she muttered through clenched teeth.

Pennywise's head emerged from the light above. His cartoonishly painted face bubbled out from the fixture as his glowing, slitted eyes glanced around the room. The clown reached his long arms out through the light fixture, wriggling through with little struggle. With a flip, Pennywise landed on the twin bed. Cowboy-style, his long legs straddled both sides, planting his boots flat on the floor. Then he stood tall – taller than Nuna realized he could be – and approached her with a cautious smile. Extending a helping hand to the frightened operative, he said, “We _must_ keep moving.”

Eyes closed, Nuna swallowed hard. “What do you suggest?”

“Break the window, Nuna Shine.”

She slowly shook her head.

“You _must_ ,” Pennywise insisted. “It's the only way out of here.”

Nuna slid downward, planting her butt to the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest. “I... _can't._ I can't. I can't...” She buried her face against the tops of her knees. “I can't!”

The clown knelt beside her, gently running his hand over her hair, sweeping it away from her face. He leaned forward, bringing his lips to her ear and insisted, “You must. _I'm_ with you. Break the window.”

“They're _watching_ me.”

Pennywise's eyes glanced over his shoulder, glaring at the window, then he looked back down at Nuna. “ _Who_ is watching you?” he continued to whisper. “Do you remember?”

“No...” she mumbled, her head still down. Then she lifted her head, tears streaming down her red cheeks. “I can't do this! Get me out of here. I changed my mind!”

Pennywise's expression suddenly darkened as his brow line swiftly dropped, eyes aglow, snarling with those sharp teeth. He grabbed Nuna by the shoulders and shook her to her feet. “Do you _or do you not_ remember what's on the other side of that window, Nuna Shine? _Do you?!_ ”

“NO!” she cried. Her tears were heavier now. The clown had his grip on her and it was strong. _Deathly_ strong. This Rescue clearly had more raw power than even the likes of Lestat.

Pennywise cupped a large white glove to Nuna's cheeks, twisting and turning her head at his whim. “And tell me this,” he rasped in her face, “what _do_ you remember? Do you remember _anything_? Two years ago? Three? What about ten?”

Nuna thought a moment on his words, trying to ignore his grip pressing into her teary face. Upon reflection, it dawned on her: Nuna _couldn't remember a thing_ from before she was trained and hired on as an operative.

“You're _not_ human, Nuna Shine. I can smell it on you. I've _tasted it_ in your blood.” Pennywise's voice shook with conviction against Nuna's crying, blubbering lips. “I _know_ humans,” he continued. “I've been watching them, _hunting_ them, for far too long. What of your childhood, hm? Do you remember growing up? Riding a bike? Building dams? Kissing boys at the cinema? Any of that ring a bell, Nuna Shine?”

“NO!” she cried out. “No...” she repeated, this time more tearful than combative.

“No...” Pennywise echoed right along with her, patronizingly shaking his head. He wrenched her closer, trying to drive his point home. “You _had_ no life like that, Nuna Shine. You had no childhood. No mother. No father. _Nothing_.”

With a sniff, she opened her sticky, red eyes and looked into his. The clown's face was nightmarishly intense. It was as if the red paint from his mouth to his brows brightened along the darkening creases that exaggerated his sharply embittered expression. He _really_ wanted her to break that window and keep moving. But _why?_

“Alright...” she gasped against the palm of his glove.”

Pennywise released his grip on her face and lowered his hand. “Here,” he said. The clown slipped a hefty rock into Nuna's hand. It looked identical to the rock Henry Bowers had thrown at the back of her head. Pennywise turned and pointed to the window. “One, two, _three..._ ”

Nuna lifted the rock high and launched it through the air. It crashed into the window, shattering the glass in one heavy collision. The window split horizontally, crumbling with ease, raining down to the floor like a waterfall of glittery shards. Waiting on the other side was simply darkness – no discernible details. Foreboding in its endlessness, it looked like a pit of black, voicelessly warning Nuna not to enter.

Regardless, Pennywise tugged Nuna by the hand, leading her toward the window. She tugged back, stopping where she stood. “What the hell was that? You said you were going to _help_ me.”

“I...” said Pennywise. “I _am_ sorry.” His tone softened – as though he _meant_ the apology. “Understand...” he explained, “ _calming_ one's fears goes against every fiber of my instincts.” He gestured to the window. “But I had you break the glass, didn't I?” With an exhale of relief, the clown pulled her to his side. “I've learned from watching certain... _people_... that sometimes when you're afraid, it's best to to overcome the fear with anger.” He took Nuna in his arms. Pennywise was indeed very strong and moved his muscles inhumanly as he, as if wholly unhindered by any semblance of her body weight, lifted her through the window and set her down.

Climbing through, the clown followed right behind Nuna. The two stood in an enveloping darkness, much like the one from her dream. “ _Gray_ ,” she said, “I know this place.”

“Yes,” nodded Pennywise. He also remembered the experience. The dream itself was not the reality. Merely an abbreviated, repressed memory of such. He'd implanted himself within it to gain a better perspective, but because of the dream's weak simplification, there was not much to draw upon.

They walked. Little by little, the light from the broken window shrunk away into the distance, until it was entirely out of sight.

“ _They_ are hiding something from you.” Pennywise's voice spoke clear and determined.

“And why would that be?” asked Nuna.

“I _don't_ know,” he confessed. “But I intend to find out _what_ you are. Perhaps that will shed some _light_.”

Nuna stopped. She let go of the clown's hand and crossed her arms. “Why do _you_ even care?” she asked with suspicion.

“Because,” he explained, reaching out to her and uncrossing her arms, he yanked her by the hand back to his side, “what if they _do the same_ to me?”

“Ah,” she nodded with a frown. “So this whole charade isn't _that_ altruistic after all, is it?”

Pennywise began walking, roughly pulling Nuna alongside him. He didn't seem to care that she was hesitant. The clown had one thing on his mind and because of it, he was hell bent. “Whatever _is?_ ” he begged the question. “No good deed is purely selfless. And I'm not exactly the _good-est_ of the good. Any deed from me is bound to be self serving.”

“And yet you want me to _trust_ you...”

Pennywise flashed Nuna a grin, which quickly disappeared from his face as he raised a finger to his red lips. “Shh.”

“What?”

“ _Shh!_ ”

“...help me...” a voice weakly called out.

“There,” Pennywise pointed. Off in the near distance was a small pyre, illuminating an isolated corner in the all encompassing darkness. Next to the pyre hung a cage, fastened by a thick, iron chain, hanging from a great, towering stone. The stone's heights to which it reached could not be seen – the surrounding pit was as black as night above.

Within the cage there was a man. His head sported thinning hair and on his face he'd grown a scraggly beard. The prisoner's cheeks were sunken, his skin pale. He'd been half starved, forgotten to the darkness, save for whomever lit the pyre.

“ _Help_...” he muttered. His bugged eyes searched the area, having heard the approaching footsteps of the operative and the clown. As soon as he caught sight of Nuna, his face brightened with recognition. “It's you!” He pointed a soiled, bony finger through the rusted bars of his cage. “YOU!” he shouted angrily. “You put me here!” Withdrawing his finger from between the bars, he swiftly covered his mouth and bowed his head. “Oh! Forgive me, my queen,” his angry tone dissipated. “I know not what I say – for I have been here for far too long!”

“Who in all of Gan's great steaming pile of _turtle puke_ is this?” grumbled Pennywise.

“I...” Nuna's eyes narrowed. “I _recognize_ him.” She approached the cage a bit closer.

“My lady!” said the prisoner, “You are fully clothed! Did you bypass all seven gates?”

Nuna knelt down. “You know me?”

The man nodded. “I am your husband,” he muttered. “You... you _put_ me here. I beg your forgiveness, my queen!”

Pennywise crossed his arms. “Husband, eh?” He chuckled. “You know how to pick em.”

Nuna flashed a glare his way, then looked back at the caged man. “Forgiveness for what?”

The emaciated prisoner smirked. “I did not mourn your imprisonment. I was giddy over it, in fact. Busy fucking three of your handmaidens! You must have known, and so you had me dragged here to this _hell_. I have since been imprisoned in your stead – as was the _agreement_.”

“Agreement? With whom?”

“Your sister, of course.” The prisoner eyed Nuna curiously. “Come closer and I will tell you more.”

Nuna shifted closer to the cage.

“Please...” mumbled the man. “Closer.”

“Nuna...” said Pennywise, taking a step forward.

She inched even closer. “My _sister?_ ” she asked.

Without warning, the prisoner's bony arm whipped through the bars like a snake taking a mouse by surprise. He wrapped his long, pallid fingers around Nuna's throat, squeezing with every ounce of strength he had left in him. “Wretched bitch!” he barked through his rotted, blackened teeth. “Lock _me_ up in here, will you!?”

At a speed of unknown measure, Pennywise was by Nuna's side in less than a moment's glance. With little hassle, he grabbed the prisoner's outstretched arm and wrenched it off at the shoulder. The man slammed backward in his cage, jostling the enclosure as he screamed, thrashing from side to side. The cage swung with ferocity. Blood bubbled out from the hinge where his missing appendage was once affixed, soaking heavily into his prisoner's rags. The clown twirled the arm like a baton, then mockingly slapped it against the cage bars. The man stared wide-eyed at Pennywise, screaming until spit bubbled out from the cracks of his mouth. He watched as the clown bit off half of the arm, swallowing a good, bony chunk of his underfed meat.

Through sharp, chewing teeth, Pennywise spoke inarticulately with his mouth full. “Even scared, you taste _awful.”_

Horrified, Nuna had long since backed away and began to run. Pennywise turned, realizing she'd fled. “Nuna Shine!” he called into the darkness. “Shit,” muttered the clown.

Nuna ran at top speed. She could _still feel_ that man's hand around her throat. He said he was her husband of all things. Well... not anymore – not after the clown had his way with him. Nuna's mind spun in circles from the asinine things the prisoner had said. Huffing as she ran, the operative's chest swelled, aching for breath, but she pushed herself harder. _Go faster. Run!_ But before she could make the decision to stop for a breather, she smacked right into a tall figure. Nuna fell flat on her back.

“Gray...” she muttered. Looking up, she soon learned that the figure towering over her was _indeed_ _not_ the clown.

“ _You?_ ” it spoke. The creature's voice was sexless, breathy – _corrupted_. Two massive, black horns perched in a wicked U-shape high on the apex of its goat-like skull. “How did you get past the seven gates?” it demanded. Eyeless, the demon's bovine muzzle pointed directly at Nuna, its black nostrils flared, defiantly glaring at her from behind the hide of its primordial face. It fluttered two large wings, draped to the ground, riddled with crimson feathers. “Are you so pompous as to think you can escape the gallu?” It reached downward with long, birdlike claws and ripped off Nuna's red dress. Tossing the dress into the pitch emptiness behind it, the gallu tore away her undergarments as well. It hissed into her face, “You may have _avoided_ the seven gates, but you will stand trial naked and powerless – as it _should_ be.” The creature rasped with faint laughter, “Your sister would not have this _any_ other way.”

The gallu grabbed Nuna by the throat, lifting her into the air. She kicked her legs, trying to free herself from its grip, but it was no use. She tried to scream, but the demon squeezed her neck so tight that she could feel her trachea slowly crushing in on itself. Her mind raced, but her kicking slowed. Just as Nuna thought she was about to draw a final breath before blacking out, the gallu released its grip, sailing backward from an unforeseen impact. Landing back on the ground, Nuna scrambled to her knees.

“Gray!” she screamed.

Pennywise had transformed into some kind of creature with robust, arachnid-like legs. Like a spider trapping a fly, he grappled the entirety of his body around the gallu as it helplessly fluttered its wings. He bit and gnawed at the demon as it, all too animal-like, brayed like injured livestock. With a monstrous claw, Pennywise tore one of the demon's wings away from its body with a sickening _rip_. Its bones splintered from its body like broken tree branches. A cloud of crimson plummage burst into the air, falling like feathery confetti. Nuna heard the spattering of the demon's blood along the pitch, black ground.

Desperate to get away, she crab crawled backwards, then twisted around onto her knees, stood, and ran. Naked and terrified, Nuna fled from the two monstrosities as they gnashed and tore at one another in a barbaric fervor. Somewhere in the distance behind her, she no longer heard the screams of the gallu – just the faint familiar laughter of a clown. When Nuna looked back over her shoulder, both creatures were out of sight. She stumbled, realizing it was foolish to look back while running. Nuna resumed her forward lookout, but the moment she did so Pennywise appeared right before her, like a tall red and ivory wall. In an eruption of jingles, Nuna collided right into him. She grappled at his jester-like clothing to prevent herself from falling. All the while, Nuna gasped for air, begging, “Out, out! Get us _out!_ ”

“Agreed,” he nodded. “We've stumbled into more than we can handle...”

Pennywise scooped Nuna into his arms and held her close. In a matter of seconds, the two vanished from Nuna's _fear_ and appeared precisely in the foyer of her apartment. The clown looked down at the operative in his arms. Jaw dropped, with drool pooling along her lips, somewhere in the mix she'd lost consciousness. Pennywise wiped a gloved thumb along the lower edge of her lip, eliminating the drool. She was utterly helpless in his arms, naked and unconscious – her mind overwhelmed by what she'd seen. “Nuna Shine...” he whispered gently. Her skin rippled with goose bumps from the pang of the cold apartment air.

Without a sound, the tall, ivory-clad clown carried the operative into her bedroom. Pulling back the bed sheets, he gently placed Nuna on the mattress then covered her. Knowing all too well that he couldn't linger – not at a time like this – Pennywise took one last look at Nuna, then disappeared back to his void.

 


	12. Batman

The search hadn't gone well for the most part. Lestat, Bates, and a handful of operatives weren't able to find much around the city limits. The group was about to travel into the outskirts which surrounded the hub, until the sighting of a woman who matched Nuna's description was reported over their comm channels. She was seen stumbling down the street, wrapped in a single bed sheet, muttering what was described as _nonsense_. When the nearest patrol picked her up and escorted her to NERF HQ, she was aptly identified as Nuna Shine, operative number 0-5-2-0. Dr. Fallengod diagnosed Nuna as _suffering from shock_ and placed her in a patient observation room _in an attempt to stabilize the victim._

Lestat insisted he remain on the other side of the window, keeping an ever watchful eye on Nuna. “I'm not sure if that creature will return for her,” he'd said. “I want to be certain that when it does, I _stop_ the red headed bastard, myself.” To this, Fallengod had cryptically assured the vampire that _a plan_ was already in place. Regardless, Lestat remained where he was and kept watch on Nuna for a total of two hours. She'd spent most of the time rocking herself back and forth on the bed, speaking a strange language that he did not recognize. Whatever it was... it sounded old. _Dead_. He'd asked Fallengod if she'd recognized the dialect, to which the doctor bluntly replied _yes,_ but offered no elaboration. Lestat found all of this – _the doctor included_ – to be unnerving. Aside from Fallengod's brusque behavior, it was in that time that Lestat de Lioncourt observed _quite_ a bit more than he'd bargained for...

 

* * *

 

Fallengod knocked on the door. “Ms. Shine?”

Nuna's rambling stopped. Her expression darkened. Remaining silent, she stared at the door.

In spite of no answer nor invite, Fallengod turned the handle, pushed the door open, and entered. “Nuna...” she sighed. The doctor walked in, closing the door behind her. She set down a clipboard on the medical counter affixed to the nearby wall. “ _How_ are you feeling?”

Nuna sensed something in Fallengod that she hadn't sensed in the past: _caution_. It was subtle. Quite restrained, but it was there. There was... something about her eyes. Micro-tells, perhaps. She'd glanced upward, only briefly. A blip of anxiousness channeled through the doctor, as if she expected the unexpected. The operative couldn't be certain, but it was almost as if Fallengod, on some hidden level, _feared_ Nuna.

...But the operative shook away the notion.

Nuna knew she wasn't in her right mind. Her experience in that _hellscape_ with the clown... it left her feeling... inexplicably... _incomplete_. A half person... a half... _something_.

...But those words.

Those _words_ had come to Nuna. She spoke them with ease, enunciating their proper inflection, their proper syntax. Obsolete diction. _Old words._ Ancient. Euphonic, however; they flowed like poetry.

“Can you tell me about your recent experience with the Rescue?” Fallengod plucked a pen from a nearby drawer and reacquired her clipboard.

Nuna drew a heavy breath through her nose. With an exhale, she reluctantly murmured, “Alright...”

“Where is it hiding?”

“Nowhere...”

Fallengod's expression flashed with judgment, then she quickly buried it beneath stoic objectivity. She peered at her clipboard and scribbled something unknown. She looked back up at Nuna, her chocolate eyes inquisitive. “What did it _tell_ you?”

Nuna wasn't comfortable with these questions. Regardless, she obediently answered. “He said that I wasn't … _human_.”

“ _He?_ ”

She nodded.

“What else did it tell you? Did it _show_ you anything?”

Nuna's voice was a whisper now. “ _Yes_...” Nearly inaudible.

“Go on.”

Nuna hesitated.

“It's alright,” pressed the doctor. “You're not alone here.” She reached to the wall by the observation window and pressed a small, blue button. An equally blue light on the wall illuminated as she held it down. “Mr. Lioncourt is here – just on the other side.”

Prompted to do so, Lestat's gentle voice spoke reassuringly over the intercom. “I'm here, Ch _ér_ ie...” His words echoed in a way that sounded trapped – like a ship in a bottle. The intercom crackled with momentary static. Fallengod released the button.

A long, silent pause had passed, or so it felt. In that time Nuna stared at the window behind which the vampire stood. _They're watching you._

She broke the silence. “He showed me my fears.”

“And what did those fears look like?”

Nuna's voice dropped to a vacant, monotone timbre. “I saw a room with a window and a bed...” She glared at the doctor. Fallengod had been hastily scribbling on her clipboard, unaware that Nuna, her eyes still fixed on the doctor, had stood up from the bed. “I saw darkness,” she continued. “A cage. My husband. A winged demon.” She slowly walked toward the doctor. Fallengod continued to write until she glanced upward, suddenly all too aware of Nuna's advancing presence. The operative had an ill-boding look in her eyes. Nuna's voice hardened. “They spoke of my _sister_.” She clenched her teeth. “They called me... **Queen**.” She lunged at Fallengod, grappling for the doctor's throat.

The doctor yelped, then motioned for a button on her badge. After tapping it, the badge emitted a soft beep, and within seconds two lab assistants stormed the room, wrestling Nuna to the bed. They pulled up the bed straps and began anchoring her down in place. “What are you hiding from me, doctor?!” she cried. Her eyes went wide and green, brimming with fury.

Dr. Fallengod composed herself and raised a hand to the window, indicating to Lestat that she had the situation under control. The doctor approached the bed, staring down at Nuna as she struggled against her thick restraints. “ _This_ is what it does to people,” sighed Fallengod. “It controls their minds. Makes them paranoid... aggressive... even _deadly_.” She turned away, momentarily, and withdrew a syringe from a nearby medical drawer. Then Fallengod pulled a bottle of some unknown liquid from the supply cabinet just above. “We need you _calm_. I can stabilize you, Nuna.” The doctor slid the needle into the mouth of the bottle and withdrew a portion of the substance. Filling the syringe, it had a powder blue coloration.

“No!” shouted Nuna. She flexed and wriggled her limbs, but it was no use. The restraints were strong. Tears welled in her eyes. Nuna screamed at Fallengod to stop. The doctor looked back at the window, yelling, “Remain where you are!” to the concerned vampire on the other side.

Meanwhile, something moved in the empty, white corner behind Fallengod. It shifted back and forth, like a shadowy blob. Then it stopped. The figure rose up behind the doctor, gradually morphing into a detailed shape. Orange hair. Red lips. White skin. Tall stature.

“Jessie!” Lestat yelled from the intercom. “Behind you!”

Nuna felt her restraints suddenly loosen by some unknowable force; in that same moment she slipped her arms and legs free. Dr. Fallengod whipped around, locking eyes with a grinning Pennywise. His teeth elongated as his mouth went crooked and wide like the gaping maw of an alligator. But before the entity could snap his jaw shut around the doctor's skull, Fallengod lifted a remote from her pocket and pressed a small, black switch.

With a sudden jerk, the clown's monstrous mouth returned to its proportionate size. Pennywise dropped to his knees, hissing and growling, as if something pained him. Then... he crumpled to the ground, unable to move. Incapacitated, the clown wriggled on the floor, _benumbed by some unseen restraint_ not too unlike the force of those which held down Nuna. _A dampening field, perhaps_. _Yes_ , he thought. They figured out a way to interfere with his ... _abilities_.

“You like my little invention?” asked the doctor with a self satisfied grin. “We had to work quickly to figure out how to subdue the likes of you.” She paced back and forth, triumphantly staring down at Pennywise. “We weren't sure what we'd be facing after your arrival. Though – I _admit_ – we'd hoped you'd have arrived with Bates' team.” She crossed her arms. Her tone dropped. “Unfortunately not everything works out the way one hopes.”

“What are you doing to him?” Nuna's voice was vigilant. _Protective_.

Pennywise twisted on the floor, writhing. He rasped threats at Fallengod, desperately cherry picking fears she'd hidden in the back of her mind. “Do you,” he giggled, “do you _think_ you pass, doctor? Are you _sure?_ Or do you know the things your staff chuckle about you once your back is turned? _She's a he! She's a he!_ ” The clown choked on his own words and coughed against the linoleum.

“Pathetic,” sneered the doctor. “You'll have to try harder than that.” Fallengod tapped her badge. “Patrick, I need you in here.”

Within minutes, the door opened and Patrick Bateman stepped into the room. He carried a solid, wooden baseball bat, the end of it pointing away from him as he balanced it over his right shoulder. With a grin, he kicked Pennywise hard in the ribs – or what should have been where the creature's ribs were. Patrick didn't understand exactly what this thing was, but as far as he knew... the thing could _bleed_. That was all that mattered. Pain. _Control_. The clown growled like a wounded animal. Patrick laughed, “Settle down...” and kicked him a second time. Then he looked over at Nuna, her face wrenched with outrage, and flashed her a wink.

Still holding the syringe, Fallengod slowly approached Nuna. Her eyes were calm and her voice took on an appeasing resonance. “It has been manipulating you, Nuna. This Rescue has been killing our operatives. Killing residents. Eating them. Feeding on our people – the _humans_ who run this hub. Humans like me. _Humans like you._ You _know_ this is what It has been doing.” The doctor gestured to the clown on the floor. His yellow eyes had drifted apart, one looking off to the left while the other rolled up into his skull. Pennywise's growls reverberated – a loud purring that almost seemed to rumble the tile under Nuna's bare feet. “It's an animal,” said Fallengod. “I wish I didn't have to say that, and I wouldn't dare say such a thing in front of _the three_ , but Nuna, damn it, this thing is an _animal_. It's hunting you. It's a killer. A killer that controls Its victims. Remember Henry Bowers? Have you...” she peered at Nuna questioningly, “... _seen or read_ the parts about Henry? Do you know what It did to him? It made the boy kill his own father – kill his own _friends,_ Nuna.” Fallengod's face dropped, pleadingly. “Am I not your friend? Have I not _been_ your friend?”

Nuna's lip trembled. She remembered the boy outside her shuttle craft. _I can make Henry Bowers do_ _anything_ _._ She began to cry. With tears wetting her cheeks, the operative nodded, almost ashamed to admit to her own foolishness.

Pennywise's eyes rolled back into focus. He stared at Nuna, trying to choke out a word, and Patrick butted the end of the baseball bat against the clown's large, white, skull. Blood surfaced from beneath a layer of his metaphysical skin, pooling, then lifting to the air. It floated toward the ceiling.

Fallengod gestured to her syringe. “I just want to clear your head. I need to treat you. You're in shock, Nuna. _Please._ I've never been anything but supportive to you. I'm your doctor. It's my job to protect you.”

“Bl...” Pennywise stammered. His yellow eyes locked onto Nuna until she looked back at him. As she returned the stare, the clown then glanced up at the blood floating up into the cracks of the ceiling. “ _Blood!”_ he rasped through sharp teeth. Drool slipped through his parted lips.

Nuna took a step back from the advancing doctor. “The blood...” she said, her voice shaking. Then she cleared her throat. Her tearful eyes went dry and sharp, like a cat's. In a steady voice, she asked, “What about the blood?”

Fallengod tilted her head. “The _blood?_ ”

Her eyes still locked with Fallengod's, Nuna pointed to the observation window. “Lestat fed on me. He vomited up my blood as if it was _poison_. There's no _human_ blood that would do that to him.”

Fallengod's face went sheet white. She spun around and jammed her finger to the blue intercom button. “You FED on her?!” she screamed. “You _bloodthirsty_ idiot!”

From behind the window, Lestat froze. He couldn't move from where he stood. He _should_ have. He should have dashed out of there to help the _good doctor_ , but something occurred to him – something that kept him from lending _any_ help. Lestat had decided, in that moment, after seeing the desperate look on her face and hearing the shrill, unadulterated rage in her voice, that _he didn't trust Fallengod one bit_.

And by the looks of it? Nuna no longer did, either. At that moment, she'd jumped on Fallengod, snatching the syringe from the doctor's hand. Before Fallengod could make another move, Nuna quickly stabbed the needle into the doctor's neck and pressed hard on the plunger, sending the blue liquid into her vein _a bit too fast_. Fallengod clapped her hand over the jab mark and yelped with pain – the substance burned as it absorbed so quickly into her blood stream. Nuna snatched the remote from Fallengod's other hand.

“You... YOU!” the doctor's eyes rolled upward as she buckled to the floor, unconscious.

Taking his eyes off of Pennywise, Patrick swung his bat hard, cracking it across the back of Nuna's legs. She screamed and fell forward, _almost_ knocking out her own front teeth as the linoleum came crashing against her face. Nuna had landed beside Pennywise who looked at her with yellow snakelike eyes that, for some reason, harbored a preposterous innocence. His head was still bleeding into the air and Nuna's face felt like it was on fire.

“Nuna...” he whispered against the tile floor. Clown spittle moved with the syllables of her name. His tone was imploring and his eyes appeared urgent.

“You know,” said Patrick, eyeing his bat. “I never liked reading books, but I enjoy a good film.” He twisted the bat around and around, as if admiring its craftsmanship. “The film from which _this_ Pennywise,” he gestured to the clown on the floor, “was based had released in early September of 2017. That's about roughly seventeen years after _my_ film, American Psycho, had released. Now, of course, _this_ version of me is from the film. So naturally... _I like the films_. I realize I'm originally from a book. Never read it. Didn't care to. Saw the 2000 film, though. _Stunning_ performance by...well... _me_ , of course. Portrayed by Christian Bale, an actor who was to go on to play Batman. And _that's who I am_ right now, isn't it? I'm _Batman_. Get it? **BAT** man.” Patrick laughed, twirling his bat.

“Which brings me back to the 2017 film version of IT. Not only did the film gross roughly 700 million at the box office, but IT had a cast lineup that was sure to sell! And _one_ cast member comes to mind – Finn Wolfhard. Ever hear of him? Young actor. Skinny kid. He played the part of Richie Tozier, the four eyed smart ass.” Patrick pointed the bat at both Nuna and Pennywise, glaring hard with a slight giddiness behind his cold, intense eyes. “Richie finds himself face to face with the clown, down in the creature's lair. And Wolfhard delivers the most brilliant line that has resonated with me, especially in _this very_ moment.” Patrick raised the bat above his head, like a baseball player getting into position to take a swing. “Tozier airs his grievances, listing them off one by one, and as he settles upon the realization that he doesn't want to die, he grabs a nearby baseball bat, announcing _I'm gonna have to kill this fuckin' clown._ ”

Nuna tapped the black switch on the remote. Within seconds, Pennywise hopped to his feet, the sound of bells jingling like it was Christmas Day. Caught off guard, Patrick Bateman stared upward at the towering, painted creature that now grinned with a wickedly toothy smile. Pennywise reached for the baseball bat and easily slid it from Patrick's loose grip. Bateman continued to stare, wide eyed, at _this thing. This thing that could easily overpower him._ He knew it. He felt it. It bled, sure. But that didn't matter anymore. Dropping the bat to the floor, Pennywise advanced toward Patrick, almost playfully.

Bateman slowly backed away as the clown moved toward him.

“Such a shame,” Pennywise spoke through rows of fiendishly sharp teeth. “Such a shame that you _don't_ read books. I _knew_ a Patrick, once. I knew every version of him. He was much like _you_ , Patrick! Cold. Calculated. Emotionless. Detached. Obsessed with himself. Obsessed with control. That film you love so much? Didn't do him justice.” The clown moved closer. Bateman stepped back once more. “My Patrick was a tough one to crack. He didn't seem to harbor any _real fears_. No, not on the surface. ...But... with you humans, there is _always_ a fear. Somewhere. Deep down. Patrick feared, of all things, _leeches_. Slimy, wriggling, _blood sucking_ leeches. One can only imagine the fun I had with that _single_ fear.” Pennywise backed Patrick Bateman into the corner. Bateman's back was flat against the wall. “I know what it is you fear, Patrick,” the clown nodded. He lifted a single, gloved finger. “The _one_ thing,” he grinned.

Bateman began to feel his usually dry, fresh – and inarguably _hygienic –_ armpits perspire. The sweat seeped into the fabric of his designer button down shirt. Luckily his blazer hid the evidence, but something about the cannibalizing look in the clown's yellow eyes told Patrick that _It knew_. The thing _knew_ he was sweating. And as it neared his clean shaven face – his face which smelled of expensive aftershave, now touching the cold, clammy skin of the clown's face which smelled of wet leaves and sewer – as it pressed its lips against his ear and whispered, almost in a seductive way, Patrick didn't doubt for a second that _this fucking clown knew he was sweating_.

It whispered, “ _Yuppie trash._ ”

Patrick Bateman had pissed himself.

Pennywise backed away, grinning from ear to ear. He lifted Nuna from the floor and covered her eyes with both hands. The clown's mouth stretched and widened, revealing teeth upon teeth that appeared to endlessly expand deep into some organic void from within.

Patrick witnessed a light inch forth from that void. It was bright - painfully bright. As its beams crawled up his torso and washed across his eyes, the light _swallowed_ him. That was the only way Patrick could describe the sensation. It engulfed him - **all**  of him, not just his physique.

It swallowed Patrick's ... _mind_.

Pennywise clutched Nuna close. His long fingers gripped around her face. His wide palms cupped over her eyes - all to keep Nuna from seeing what Patrick now saw.

The Deadlights unapologetically flooded through the patient observation room.

 

 


	13. ...Comes Great Responsibility

Having blacked out, Nuna awoke to find herself in one of NERF's shuttle crafts. She could tell by the very hum of the ship (or lack thereof), that it had yet to be undocked. As Nuna wearily lifted her head from the thin pillow on the even thinner cot beneath her, she turned to see two glowing eyes, piercing with anticipation as they looked back at her from her bedside.

“Good,” nodded Pennywise. “You're awake. We should hurry, Nuna Shine. However...” his eyes did a little circular glance around the general area, “...I know _not_ how to pilot this infernal... _thing._ ”

She sat up. Her dark, brown hair hung in greasy, scraggly strands. Nuna was still dressed in her thin, blue patient scrubs from her recent encounter with Dr. Fallengod. She rubbed her forehead, closing her eyes and squeezing them just to make sense of what had happened. “Gray...” she groaned. Nuna sighed, then stopped rubbing her head. Looking straight at the clown as he, literally, hovered by her bedside, she asked, “Why aren't we in your little hiding spot?”

“The cosmos? The other dimension?”

She nodded.

“We were for a time,” Pennywise admitted. His eyes locked hard on the operative as he spoke. There was an urgency to his tone. “You began to stir. I brought you here.”

“Why?”

With his jaw half-slacked, and pointed teeth peeking out from below his plump, red lips, the primordial creature, who was painted and dressed in ruffs and pom poms, raised his lanky, right arm. Using a single index finger, the tip of his glove traced a set of numbers in the air. Glittering like starlight, the numbers floated in front of Nuna's tired and stale eyes. They twinkled as if this creature had summoned a dying sun just to be the ink in his “pen” for this fleeting moment. Gesturing to the sparkling figures, Pennywise asked, “ _What_ are these numbers?”

Nuna scrunched her face, wondering why in the world he would think she'd understand the meaning of them. But as she eyed the starry, floating digits, and as her mental wherewithal slowly returned, Nuna knew _exactly_ what they were. “ _Those_ are coordinates,” she muttered – a hint of intrigue surfaced in her voice. “But... where did you get them?”

“Fallengod,” answered Pennywise. “When I probed her for her fears.” His voice dropped. “As _feebly_ as I did...” He shook his head angrily, then perked his tone once again. “These numbers were buried _deep._ About as deep as I could go in that weakened state. But I didn't expose them – they seemed too _valuable_ to blab.”

“Where do they lead?”

Pennywise shrugged. Bells jingled with the bounce of his shoulders. “Your doctor's mind was quite guarded. However, _these_ numbers – oh _yes_ – they were firmly connected to her fear of... _you_.”

“Then we need to move fast.” Nuna jumped from the cot and hurried to the front of the ship. Sitting in one of the two pilots' seats, she began to flip switches and press buttons, activating the ship's control panel. “Hold on,” said Nuna. The ship hummed – it had been music to her ears. Undocking itself from the station, Nuna was all too aware they only had _some minutes_ before personnel back on the hub were notified to an unauthorized departure. “We need to get away _fast_ before they spot us.”

“Not an issue,” promised the clown. “They don't see us leaving. They see an empty ship, still docked.” He flashed Nuna a wide, wicked grin.

“Good,” she nodded. Nuna leaned forward to plug the coordinates into the ship's navigation system. As she did so, Fallengod's remote she'd stolen fell from the front pocket of her scrubs. It clacked to the floor, catching her attention. Programming the coordinates with one hand, Nuna reached down with the other, retrieving the remote. Peering at it, she said, “I wonder what this thing does exactly.” With great curiosity, she popped the back of it off and inspected the inside. There was nothing. No wires. No battery. Nothing even to transmit a weak signal. Nuna held up the remote, displaying it to Pennywise with a grim look on her face. “I don't understand.” She shook her head. “It's just a piece of plastic.”

Pennywise scowled, snatching away the remote. “They _tricked_ me!” he growled.

“What do you mean?”

The clown crushed the remote in his glove, breaking it into a dozen pieces. “If one _believes_ strongly enough that something can do me harm, then... _unfortunately..._ it tends to _work._ Or so the tales have told.” Pursing his red lips, Pennywise sniffed angrily. “The belief _must_ be strong.”

“That _is_ an unfortunate weakness,” agreed Nuna. “Fallengod has been known to be dedicated to the canon of our Rescues. Say what you will about the doctor... but she is very intelligent.” Nuna sighed, eyeing one of the stasis pods. “There is another matter to which I must attend – if we're traveling through space, then I have to prepare for stasis. There's no other way around it.”

“Isn't there?” asked the clown. “After everything that has happened? You ... _still_... think you're human?” He burst into mocking giggles.

“I'm not risking it,” replied Nuna.

Pennywise nodded, smacking his hands together, ridding himself of the plastic fragments from the remote. “Very well, Nuna Shine. I shall retreat to my cosmological void. It's much cozier than... _this._ When you arrive to ... _wherever_ these numbers lead... I'll find you! You will know it is me.”

 

* * *

 

Lestat awoke in a brightly lit prison cell. Through the clear, plastic bars he spied Dr. Fallengod pacing back and forth, jotting notes to that same clipboard from earlier. _The three_ stood behind her, conversing about what to do regarding “Fallengod's mistake.”

Pointing with a witchy, green finger, Medusa hissed, “It should be _you_ in that cell.” The snakes on her head jerked forward, snapping their narrow jaws at the air.

“I can't say I disagree,” nodded Pinhead. His eyes looked away from the doctor and locked onto Lestat. “And what of the vampire?”

Fallengod stopped pacing and looked up. “He interfered with our project. We tried to give him a second chance when he screwed up the first time. That was an obvious failure. We're lucky we only lost Patrick. I've placed Mr. Lioncourt in custody until the three of you reach a decision as to what to do with him.”

Lestat rushed the bars of his holding cell and gripped them. Baring his fangs, he shouted, “What am I accused of, exactly?!”

Ignoring his outburst, the doctor and _the three_ continued their conversation. Hannibal Lecter gave Fallengod a disappointed look. “Perhaps we should incarcerate you, as well, doctor. Reviewing the evidence of your failings, perhaps you are no longer suitable to oversee this project.”

“That is a terrible idea,” argued Dr. Fallengod. She clutched the clipboard tightly to her chest.

“Of course you would say so,” nodded Dr. Lecter. “You're the one about to join Monsieur de Lioncourt.” He paused. With the lift of an eyebrow, Lecter said, “But please... convince me further.”

Jessie Fallengod breathed deep through her nose, as if she were about to enter a meditative state. With an exhale, she turned toward Lestat, who had still been gripping the bars of his cell. “We use him as bait. We know which shuttle craft is missing. We can send a message to Nuna. If she comes back to us, then Lestat may go free. Simple. Clean. No fighting. No bloodshed.”

“No risk of Nuna being harmed?” asked Dr. Lecter, his voice laced with polite concern.

Fallengod shook her head.

 _The_ _three_ glanced at one another. One by one, each nodded in agreement.

“We will give it a try,” said Hannibal. “If it fails... then being out of the job may very well be the _least_ of your concerns, doctor.” Each of _the three_ exited the clean, bright room that was, in spite of its sterile white walls, nothing more than a salubrious prison.

Lestat's porcelain face dejectedly pressed against the translucent bars as he spoke. “What is she to you?” His voice was calmer, quieter – almost _surrendering_. The vampire's piercing eyes appeared haggard, to say the least.

“Nuna?” asked Fallengod.

“Yes.”

“She is my responsibility,” whispered Fallengod.

Lestat could have sworn the emergence of fresh tears may have welled in the right corners of the good doctor's big, brown eyes. But as quickly as they presented themselves, the droplets retreated back into their ducts, almost as if it had never happened. As if Lestat had _imagined_ it.

The vampire's lips mumbled feebly against the crystal clear prison bar. “Could you be a little more specific, doctor?”

Fallengod took a deep breath, as if cleansing herself of annoyance. “What is she to me? She is my responsibility.” Glancing toward the door from which _the three_ just exited, she added, “What is Nuna Shine to _them?_ ” The doctor unclutched her clipboard from her chest, looked down, glancing briefly at her notes. Looking back at Lestat, she answered, “A weapon.”

 


	14. Of Gods and Monsters

Nuna's aircraft arrived to the coordinates and landed promptly at the precise location thereof. In some time, just as she'd been trained to do again and again, Nuna awoke from stasis, dressed herself, prepared her gear, and emerged from the ship. Her destination in question looked like the Blue Planet, albeit ancient, as if set in a period before the rise and fall of Rome – as if set in a period _before_ the period preceding Rome, _and possibly even before that.._.

Looking out toward what appeared to be the sea, Nuna gazed across a sprawling city which nestled up against its very coastline. The metropolis was archaic, but preserved an _obsolete_ sort of beauty. Had it been Sumerian? _Akkadian_ _?_ The city hugged an ivory beach welcoming the rush of the Mediterranean's heavy tides. Nuna felt the cool flow of nautical breeze lift against her cheeks. With a deep breath, she inhaled the aromatic sea air. There was something familiar about the taste of it. The back of her throat jumped at the savory, delightfully salty – _even_ _marshy –_ quality _._ There'd been a sample of every odor of fish, every variety of crustacean – Nuna even detected the pungency of phytoplankton from farther out, floating like miniscule, green empires occupying the white, rolling crests of the water's broad waves.

She walked.

As Nuna proceeded deeper into the city, the operative quickly learned she was able to understand the inscriptions carved into the buildings, statues, and surrounding architecture. These words had been written in an ancient cuneiform. She wondered why this language was not just _familiar,_ but came quite naturally to her – about as natural as the words a child would have learned from her parents.

Pennywise the Dancing Clown was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he had decided not to make his way back to Nuna. Perhaps the creature was playing pretend all this time. Perhaps his insistence that Nuna was not human had been a ruse. _Maybe she was human after all._ Maybe the clown _had_ manufactured the chaos back on the Nexus and used this trek to slip into hiding, only to send Nuna off somewhere in total isolation, so that he could _hunt_ her. The operative walked, wondering heavily upon these treacherous possibilities, but somewhere in the back of her mind... there was hefty doubt weighing up against the likelihood of their truths. With a few blinks and the quick jerk of her neck, Nuna shook away her anxious qualms. She was _here_ now. The best course of action was to simply have a look around.

Surveying the buildings, it appeared the design of choice was crafted via rounded bricks, lain in rows perpendicular to one another. The bricks had been baked by the sun to harden their surfaces, which begged the question of their overall durability. Nevertheless, these buildings stood – short, medium, and tall. Others were more extravagant than some, but each had been meticulously constructed. The _most_ extravagant, however, caught Nuna's eye. At the farthest end of the city stood a massive temple overlooking the cliff's edge to the sea below. It was the biggest structure throughout the vicinity, also built from crude bricks, but supported by buttresses and the like. A web of drains surrounded it, composed of what could only be lead. They had been designed to carry away the rain, down deep, into some kind of primitive sewer system. Columns surrounded the exterior of the temple, composed of frescoes and a rainbow of enameled tiles. The temple's external walls were brilliantly colored, plated with combinations of zinc and gold. Hand painted terra-cotta cones carrying torchlight had been fastened around the walls, each one set apart from the other at a patterned, measurable distance. The sun above was setting and the horizon across the ocean slowly grew deeper orange. The flicker of the torches from within the shadows against the temple walls momentarily arrested Nuna's gaze. It was as if she were watching fireflies in the distance.

Pulling her eyes away from distant sights, the operative took notice of the dark haired, olive skinned people who bustled up and down the city streets. They'd been dressed in thin upper garments, some even went shirtless, and around their legs dangled wraps, loincloths, and fringed skirts. The lower halves of their ensembles were held tight to their waists with thick, leathery belts secured by knotwork tied from the hair of hoofed beasts. Many men, women, and children wore gold and silver bangled bracelets. Many also had sandals bejeweled with orange-red gemstones. The same brand of adornments were also woven into their hair, which had been embellished with polished carnelian that glinted like copper and amber tinsel throughout their dense, chocolate-rich braids.

Music played. Nuna's ears had gradually been drawn to it. She heard a system of diatonic scales, coupled with stringed instruments. Reed pipes vibrated in tandem with the soft beat of distant drums. Meanwhile, the nasally timbre of east African lyres resonated throughout the harmony of it all. However, Nuna saw no musicians. Regardless, the music enveloped the city like a blanket of melodic omnipresence.

The people stared at the operative with recognition in their eyes. Many dropped to their knees, prostrating themselves before her, tugging at the dresses of their small children to do the same. Others stood and stared, muttering to one another in a quick, ancient utterance. Nuna understood every word of it. The syntax of their murmurs predated Aramaic. This language was old. _Dead_. Long dead. But the words came fluently to Nuna's understanding – like a _first language_. Like something into which she'd been _born_. As she listened, the operative overheard the word _queen_ repeated again and again.

“ _Queen.”_

“ _Our Queen.”_

“ _My Queen.”_

“ _The Queen.”_

“ _The Queen has returned.”_

Women and children trailed behind Nuna, hurrying to match her pace. They carried small ashen cakes, as if bearing gifts for their visitor. As Nuna looked around at the growing crowd which followed her, she spied men bowing their heads, attempting to avert their eyes to hide what appeared to be tears. _Such strange reactions to a newcomer,_ she'd thought. Nevertheless, the operative kept her pace and continued her trek toward the great temple.

As Nuna walked, she felt something gently brush against her right thigh. Her right hand, swinging as it naturally did with a quick pace, swept over a rounded, fuzzy head with two pointed ears. Nuna looked down. Strutting alongside her was a cheetah, slender in the body, sporting its obligatory spotted pelage. The animal glanced up at her. In that moment, she noticed its black tear-like streaks falling from its glowing, yellow eyes to the corners of its _(...had it been grinning?)_ mouth. There was something inherently _familiar_ about the animal.

“ _Gray?_ ” whispered Nuna.

Maintaining its pace, the cheetah arched its back and nuzzled its head into her hand. _**Yes.**_ The beast spoke without moving its feline lips. Nuna could hear Pennywise's croaky voice in her head. _**Perhaps it's best that I blend in. Oh Nuna Shine! You don't need to 'talk' to me. Just think whatever it is that you wish to say!**_

_If you don't want to be seen... then don't be seen. You don't need to disguise yourself._

Nuna was nearing the temple's grounds. Rose petals of every shade of pink and red spilled down a stony flight of steps. It was by this point, which seemed to be the end of her trek, the crowd following behind had grown to a maximum of _hundreds_. The denizens in tow did not follow the operative as she ascended the stairway to the temple. It was as if _that_ ground was sacred – _off limits._ Regardless, something drew Nuna to this place. It felt as if she had _special_ _rights_ to it.

_**Perhaps I want to be seen.** _

_But not as the clown?_

_**Not here. For now, I'm merely a spectator. This is quite the welcome, Nuna Shine! Look at all your adoring fans! From what I've gathered, these folks think of you as their sovereign.** _

Nuna heard a small chuckle echo in her mind.

... _ **Some even fear you.**_

_Sovereign. Yes. I've gathered just as much. But I don't understand why..._

_**Keep moving, Nuna Shine! And let us understand!**_ Ears perked,Pennywise, in his spotted, long-legged cat form, suddenly stopped. _**Someone approaches.**_ He pressed himself against Nuna's right thigh, eyes fixed forward, unblinking, as any cat worth its salt could do.

The operative watched as an older woman, dressed in thin white robes, quickly stepped out from the temple doors. She, like the others, had dark braided hair, although on the top of her forehead sprouted two small horns, like those of a satyr. Her eyes glowed purple – and not a deep violet that some eyes quite naturally could be. This was a bright, candy colored purple, vivid and gleaming, as if she, like the clown, were otherworldly.

“My lady!” cried the woman, rushing up to Nuna. “You've returned!” She promptly bowed, then stood again, her face beaming with relief and joy. She clutched Nuna's hand and looked her up and down. “My Queen... what in the world are you … _wearing?_ ”

_Who is this woman?_

_**How should I know?** _

_Can't you read her mind? Don't you know people's names at a glance?_

The large cat almost seemed to emit a _sigh_ as it glared hard at the horned, purple-eyed stranger in the white robes.

_**Ninshubur. That is her name. She prides herself as your 'sukkal.' Your second-in-command. Your messenger. She appears to have no ill intent toward you. Though, I can't say the same in regard to her feelings about your attire!** _

“Come,” said Ninshubur. “Follow me, my lady. We must get you out of those dreadful _rags_.”

Nuna's _sukkal_ led her into the temple.

Pennywise followed.

Ninshubur took notice of the creature. Her face twisted up with confusion. “You've brought a ... _what_ is that? One of those _hunting leopards?_ ”

“Yes,” Nuna nodded. “A _hunting_ _leopard_.”

“They're quite fast,” remarked Ninshubur, leading the two of them through a great hall which appeared to have a grand tapestry hanging from its walls. Woven into the middle of the tapestry was an eight pointed star. The name _“Inanna”_ had been stitched into the star's center and the phrase _“the web of the universe”_ accompanied the design.

“Yes they are,” Nuna agreed. “Where are we going?”

“To your room, of course.” Ninshubur smiled. They approached two large, golden doors, as tall as the ceiling. With little effort, the sukkal was able to push them open, in spite of their massive appearance. The room on the other side of the threshold was wide open and bright. It looked out over the cliff's edge – toward the sea. Its “windows” were mere openings, able to be curtained off by the drop of turquoise beads which had been bustled away to either side.

Meanwhile, Pennywise the _Quiet Cheetah_ hopped onto a large, ostentatious bed, covered in soft linens that smelled of rich incense. He circled around and around until he settled on a spot to rest his haunches. The creature watched as the horned sukkal instructed dear old Nuna Shine to dress herself in the _proper attire for a Queen._

“Honestly,” added Ninshubur, gesturing to Pennywise, “I do not understand why you didn't bring a _lion_.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know,” she grinned. “The lion is more... _you._ Always has been.” Ninshubur cleared her throat and pointed to an arrangement of items on the bed. “There is everything you need for the funeral tomorrow. I'll see myself out. And...” She paused. “...my lady may leave _those_...” with a disgusted noise she gestured to Nuna's Nexus gear, “...somewhere outside the door.” The horned woman bowed to Nuna once more and promptly turned, exiting through those same great doors. She closed them behind herself, allowing privacy for the night.

“Finally!” said Pennywise, quite loudly. The large cat jumped from the bed. His body convulsed and twisted up into the more familiar shape of the towering, red haired clown.

“Funeral?" asked Nuna. " _What_ funeral?"

Pennywise shrugged, then walked over to where Nuna stood. The two of them stared down at the arrangement on the bed. Displayed before them were five separate items. The first was a bronze cuirass, plated with gold. The armor was crafted in such a way to flaunt the contours of the upper and lower abdominals – the musculature of an accomplished warrior. The second was a set of beads made from lapis-lazuli. The necklace had an intense ultramarine hue, as blue as the sea to the west. The third and fourth items were a golden ring and a matching golden crown. The crown bore long, thick golden points all around the front of its arc – each as sharp as a lion's teeth.

Nuna picked up the crown, scanning it with her eyes. “You could fight to the death with this thing,” she gasped, then set it back down.

The fifth and final item was a _scepter_. It looked like a rod composed entirely of blue crystal. The pigment was every bit as blue as the beaded necklace. Around the upper end of the rod was a thin ring of gold. Nuna detected something wholly _arcane_ from it. This wasn't _just_ a scepter. The rod emanated divination. _Sorcery_.

It _called_ to Nuna.

She reached out, picking up the crystal rod. As soon as her palm closed around it, a rush of _something powerful_ surged through her fingers. This _power_ swelled higher and higher until she felt it reach her core. _Wizardry_. Some sort of wizardry was at work, here. As the rod's power consumed Nuna, suddenly _she_ _remembered._ **The memories** came flooding back.

Pennywise watched in awe. Nuna Shine was on her knees, mouth agape. With static eyes, the woman stared upward to the vaulted ceiling as a powerful blue light erupted forth. It beamed from her mouth and eyes, as if something from within had burst open, like a reliquary long locked tight. For the first time in a long time, the eldritch creature felt... _afraid_. What was wrong with Nuna Shine? He remained where he stood, unsure if it was wise to interrupt this _merging_ of the operative and that crystalline trinket in her hand.

Eventually the blue light dimmed away and Nuna, seemingly unconscious, fell to the ground. As soon as she'd smacked to the floor, it was evident that the operative was still awake. Nuna wrestled herself back to her feet, looked at Pennywise, and gasped, “ _I know who I am!_ ” Her hoarse voice sounded ...beyond angry. _Rage_. She was enraged. Exhausted, but enraged.

Just as Nuna was about to stumble again, Pennywise reached forward and steadied her. “And _who_ is that, Nuna Shine?” he asked, whispering against her ear.

She clutched him back, falling into his arms. “Not Nuna Shine,” she rasped, still catching her breath. “I am _Inanna_. The name woven into the wall hangings just outside this room.”

“Ah,” grinned the clown. “Inanna...” He'd recognized the name, once spoken aloud.

The two of them slumped to the floor. Pennywise now had Nuna fully on his lap as she looked into his yellow primordial eyes with intensity. Her breathing calmed and her natural voice slowly returned. “I am a god,” she said. “In some narratives... I am Inanna. In others, I am Ishtar. I am the god of love. But...” she trailed off.

The clown's expression narrowed. “ _But?_ ”

Her voice hardened. “I am the god of war.”

Nuna raised two fingers and slowly moved them in a trance-inducing sort of way. Behind her, the sea swirled as the clouds darkened above. A bolt of lightning razored across the sky and touched down to the water.

“I _control_ it,” she said. “ _All_ of it.”

“And you are _Queen?_ ” asked Pennywise.

“Queen of Heaven.”

“ _This_ is Heaven?”

Nuna nodded. “This is my kingdom. I come from an old narrative. But... what I don't understand is why I needed to be rescued. Why did NERF take _me?_ I am no antagonist.”

“Who _is_ the antagonist here?” asked Pennywise.

Nuna's brow dropped a moment as she tried to make sense of the flood of memories which had returned to her. There had been so many that her mind was still cloudy. Someone had been _purposefully_ locking away these revelations. “My – my _sister_...” she sighed. “She is Ereshkigal, the Queen of the Dead.”

“Perhaps your sister would have more answers,” the clown suggested.

Nuna pressed herself closer to him and whispered against the ruffs around his neck. “Perhaps. I remember now... that... that _funeral_ tomorrow... it's for her husband. Maybe I'll find answers there.”

Silence fell between the two of them. Pennywise sensed more to Nuna Shine than there had ever been. There was an awakened strength in her – undeniably powerful. Perhaps _too powerful._ She wasn't a creature, or even a monster – she was a _god._ She'd just demonstrated the twiddle of her fingers which brought the very clouds together to ignite a storm. The clown was no stranger to such abilities, himself, but there was something inherently more powerful – something older, something _darker_ – within Nuna Shine.

Pennywise's narrative was all too new by comparison to hers. Nuna's wasn't even written on paper to begin with. The clown's creator was still alive. Nuna's was, not only long dead, but unknown, and perhaps had never originated from a _single_ source. No. _Her_ story began in a crowd of whispers among groups of primitive people. On the Blue Planet... there had still been shrines built in her name. There were still cults practicing in her honor. And _every year,_ at the height of Spring, whether the Blue Planet folk knew it or not, the majority of them dined on chocolate rabbits and painted eggs _all because of her._ Nuna wasn't just a character in a story, hero or antagonist or otherwise. She was an idol. A totem. _A god._

“ _Nuna Shine..._ ” said Pennywise, his tone more serious than it had ever sounded, “I'll continue to... to _help_ you.” His wickedly thin brows arched like those of the devil, but his words sounded as promising as those of a seraph.

Nuna looked up at him, at his monstrous face, painted wildly, hiding the immeasurable horror of the boundless creature beneath his skin. This Rescue had... _taken_ to her.

“I saved you from your prison,” she muttered, “and now you've saved me from _mine_.”

Unsure of what should result from this, but not caring in the heat of the moment, Nuna leaned forward and pressed her open mouth to his plump, red lips. They were soft, as soft as he'd presented them through his trickery. Nuna could feel his teeth on the other side, pushing against not just the flesh of his mouth, but the entirety of his face. She touched him, planting both hands, palms down, on his upper body. Those teeth... they hid behind his neck, and chest; she sensed their hunger throughout him. It was insatiable. _Hunger_ was the strongest impression she'd detected from the clown... from the creature. _It_. But hidden beneath that savage gluttony, Nuna's otherworldly sense detected _something else_. Perhaps it was new, which was why it was so weak by comparison to the hunger. Of all things, she'd detected affection. Small. Anemic compared to its brother, hunger. But _growing_. This affection seemed to thrive. And as she kissed this monster... Nuna sensed it pushing closer to the forefront of his being. It muscled past the malevolence, slipping around the ravenousness.

 _Affection_.

Pennywise slid his gloved hands to Nuna's neck, cradling her jawline. His lips pushed back against hers, and with every effort to keep his inner monstrosity at bay, he kissed this strange deity as deeply as his inner villain would allow. Surprisingly, it allowed quite a bit.

The two, having already fallen into an embrace, spread out across the floor. But this was not a usual coupling... a monster and a god? Nuna's gear seemed to almost drop from her, as if she willed it so. The sensation felt familiar, much like when her arm and leg restraints back in the patient observation room had done the same. She'd assumed that had been the work of the clown, but now... _she knew the truth_.

Pennywise loomed over Nuna as she lay there, exposed and nude – seemingly growing with a desire to be ... _pleasured_. “Do you... want _flesh?_ ” he asked, unfamiliar with such deeds.

“Flesh doesn't matter,” she whispered. “You. I want you.”

“ _Me..._ ” he grinned. It was the grin of a person who kept a treacherous secret. A secret so dark, so dangerous, and yet they couldn't wait to spring on the unsuspecting. _Me,_  he'd thought.All that encompassed _him...It..._  was more incomprehensible than the webwork of the Macroverse, itself.

Nevertheless... she nodded.

Pennywise's overall makeup and ensemble was still that of the clown, but his appearance seemed to change halfway down his torso. Around the pelvic area, the creature had demonstrated a phallic shape, springing forth from between his long, kneeling legs. It was a cock, but there were no testicles. Just a long, fully erect, alabaster cock. It didn't bear the same details as those of a human male's. The eldritch creature seemed to have his own idea as to what a cock looked like, perhaps due to the fact that he had never before considered the idea to shapeshift such a thing.

The phallus was ridged geometrically, but organic in shape, like any sexual member that would grow from flesh. It, however, bore an alien pattern of straight-line corrugations. The ridges began at its tip and cascaded down its length, disappearing into Pennywise's groin – which was nothing more than the silver and ivory fabric of the dancing clown's attire. It glistened all around the girth of its shaft, as if unseen pores were sweating out hints of cosmic eldritch light. There was no opening at the end, nothing from which to spill forth any kind of seed or semen or bodily fluid.

 _He_ _had no bodily fluid_. Not of _that_ nature. Certainly, in Patrick's words, the clown could bleed, but in this instance... a sexual organ, without any urge to reproduce, was in no position to ejaculate. So the fact lingered... what function other than _**pleasure**_ did it _need_ to provide?

Nuna reached out and gripped the phallus in her hand. It was slick and warm. Firm. The smooth skin that glistened like starlight between her curled fingers remained tight to its shaft as she caressed its length. Pennywise grinned as he lowered himself on top of her – this _willing god_... willing to be fucked by a voidcreature as mysteriously freakish as he.

He sidled his knees on both sides of her firmly planted buttocks. His cock did the rest of the work as it easily slid into the wet embrace of her cunt. And that's exactly what it was – _a_ _cunt_. She was a god, and not just a god of sex and love, but that of warfare... conquest... _bloodshed_. Nuna Shine. Inanna. _Ishtar_. She didn't have a _pussy_ or a _vagina_. She didn't have a _womb_. Such soft words for soft beings.

Inanna had a tight, wet, _godlike_ cunt – and it gripped Pennywise's cock, pulling his phallus deeper into its hugging, slickening walls.

A startled breath escaped Pennywise as she enveloped him. He'd never _copulated_ before _._  In his narrative, there was some mention of his final physical form being pregnant - one could only assume the creature from the sewers of Derry had engaged in sex to be put in such a state. But such was never the case in his experience. No intercourse of any kind, cosmic or earthly, had ever been written for him. But here he was now, broken out from his prison... his shapeshifted cock penetrating deep inside the warm, wanton sex of a god. Pennywise clenched his sharp teeth, drooling fervently over Nuna's writhing, naked breasts. How he wanted to kiss on her, suck on parts of her, ... _consume her._

The eldritch clown closed his monstrous, glowing eyes, enjoying every moment that Nuna's hungry lower half swallowed him right down to his groin. After a moment of ecstasy, gyrating himself against her as she moaned with each of his thrusts, he felt her hand brush against his cheek. Pennywise opened his eyes and looked down at Nuna.

Unafraid – _why would she be?_ – she reached for his fiendish, painted face, urging him to lower those wide, crimson, deadly lips to hers.

And so he did.

As Pennywise kissed her deeply, forgetting to procure a tongue because, truly, _he did not have one_ , she penetrated his wicked mouth with her tongue, gliding it all around the sharp, needle points of hundreds of teeth. Nuna was unconcerned. She knew he would not bite down. Admittedly, she was powerful, but should this creature have decided to bite down... the fight would have been... _balanced_.

As Nuna's tongue explored Pennywise's treacherous, oral vacuity, she could taste the reverberations of devoured screams. The cries of those who've been absorbed into the voidlike totality of his deeper being. They tasted... _warm_. Their pleas radiated against Nuna's tongue. As she kissed and penetrated the clown's mouth with fervor, their despair and madness intensified, sweltering within Pennywise's deadly orifice. In sync with this, he pumped hard into Nuna, gripping her closer with a strength unlike any he'd demonstrated before. The clown was as strong as a planet, or even a sun – perhaps as strong as a black hole as it swallowed up not only life, but bent, twisted, and robbed the universe of light, itself.

This did not injure Nuna. She was as equally as powerful, and as equally as resistant to such tenacity. Her legs wrapped around his waist, gripping him back with all the throes of the Heavens; all the violence and turmoil of wars waged throughout human history. All the bodies of soldiers who'd fought in her name which had piled themselves into oblivion, rotted away, their bones mummified beneath the soil like fragmented rumors of a story so bloody that it took thousands of years to tell.

Nuna grappled to the eldritch creature and moaned, "Gray..."

Pennywise fucked her harder now, sliding himself in and out, growling intensely against the crook of her neck. His body rumbled with an animalistic purring that vibrated hard against Nuna's thighs, chest, nipples - _everything_. All the while, the pleats and ruffs of his hips rotated against her spread legs as he pumped into her again and again.

 _Those ridges._ She could feel their texture against her wet walls. Gliding in and out, creating friction that sent tickling chills throughout her insides. Nuna closed her eyes and held her breath, then whimpered with pleasure into his ear, sending the eldritch clown to new heights of sexual excitement. 

Claws now protruded through the white fingertips of Pennywise's gloves - claws which grappled for Nuna, pulling her upright without so much as a pause in his pelvic rhythm. Nuna was lifted and raised, as the clown's lanky arms pressed her against his tall, doll-like body.

The two went up against one another, seductively gasping into one another's mouths. Nuna panted in sync with the clown, as his horrific teeth bore gusts of sticky, hot breath just mere inches from her face.

The sight was erotic, albeit freakish, as they moaned and gasped, creating sounds of an almost unfathomable capacity. A light erupted between them, eclipsing the two into one for a brief, carnal moment.

Deep within, Nuna felt his ridged cock widen and contract, the phallus itself spasming against her walls as it orgasmed in a fit of wild, perhaps uncharted, pleasure. The sensation of his cock inside of her pulsed a cold, gripping rush up through her chest. Nuna's mind fought the rising shrieks of lost, maddened souls detonating from within his core. All the while, her body responded with bursting waves of contracting muscles, forcibly drawing in on themselves over and over again.

The devoured souls within him screamed and the wartorn dead who had pledged themselves to Inanna rolled in their fossilized graves...

...and yet...

...all the while...

Nuna Shine and Pennywise the Dancing Clown climaxed savagely into the night.

 


	15. Forget Me Not

On the Nexus, they'd named the Rescue _M.T.,_ short for _murderous thief_. “Murderous Thief” was the direct translation for _internecivus_ _raptus,_ a Latin name given to this particular breed of an endoparasitoid extraterrestrial species. The _alien_ was more commonly known as a xenomorph. And... quite frankly... on the Nexus there'd been _no_ rehabilitating it.

M.T. was a _failed Rescue._

Looking out over the dark chasm split deep into the core of a moon, not far from the remains of a derelict ship and mining facility, M.T. had remembered his home. _This_ home. In this abysmal place, he heard the call of his Queen as it resonated through the leathery membranes protected beneath the layers of his black skin.

_He was home._

Lobster-like in his appearance, bearing an exoskeleton stronger – and more bullet-resistant – than steel, M.T. was the perfect killing machine. Back on the Nexus, those operatives had learned this first hand. They'd tried to rehabilitate him – tried to domesticate him. They wanted M.T. to be a success story... to be the first xenomorph happily liberated on The Farm. After so many were killed, time and time again, _the three_ decided to enact desperate measures to simply _put him down_. Operatives tried everything – shooting him, burning him, cutting him up. By far... the expulsion of acidic blood resulted in so many gruesome deaths and injuries that it was clear this alien species was no easy thing to terminate. The body count had reached somewhere in the dozens. Nexus officials were well aware that their efforts against M.T. proved to be useless and fatal in the long run.

The xenomorph had skin composed of protein polysaccharides – a substance akin to that of chitin, but _stronger._ Each time M.T.'s body withstood damage, he'd replaced his injured surface cells with polarized silicon through a complex (and poorly understood) ability to hyper-evolve. This allowed his exterior to become more flexible, more heat resistant, more... _everything_ resistant.

The incredible design of M.T. didn't end there. The alien stood over 7 feet tall, weighing well over 160 kilograms. He had two pairs of finger-like digits which included opposable thumbs. On the tips of these digits, M.T. bore sharp claws, capable of slashing through metal like a hedge – _capable_ _of cutting through bone like butter._ And yet, although this creature had enough with which to eviscerate its prey through those features alone, M.T. also possessed an extensive, whip-like tail, ridged along its length and serrated at its toxic tip. The tail was a “laceration appendage” at its finest.

M.T.'s jaw was lined with rows of pointed teeth, sharper than razors. He bit down with ten times the force than that of an alligator's. But... the _hidden gem_ , as all who truly knew the anatomy of a xenomorph, was an intra-oral cord of muscle that formed an appendage – a _tongue_ – which, not only possessed its own set of microteeth, but was capable of "punching" through almost anything, from bone to Nexus operative armor.

Nexus officials, indeed, tried _everything._ M.T., alone, cleared an entire squad. The confrontation resulted in a burned building and casualties begging to be put out of their misery as they writhed from the tactile exposure to the alien's acidic blood.

It was time to send M.T. back to his narrative bubble.

To their fortune, the xenomorph _was_ able to be sedated. A quick tranquilizer dart to M.T.'s open mouth, mid hiss, did the trick. Fortunately, the mouth was lined with softer tissue – easily penetrated. The tranquilizer took the creature down for approximately 38 hours at the onset of the drug. As a sidenote, the dosage – after much trial and error – had to be four times than that required to sedate a giant hellhound whom Dr. Fallengod had _nicknamed_ Cerberus.

During those 38 hours, a mind-wipe was performed on the xenomorph, eliminating all knowledge of his travel to, and experience on, the Nexus. M.T. was then shuttled back to his narrative bubble, all while encased in a black box aboard a space craft piloted solely by the ship's computer. Without detour or fail, the alien landed back on his moon, awoke some hours later, and _burst_ from his box, subsequently destroying the interior of the craft. In minutes, M.T. effortlessly broke his way through the shuttle's door, exiting to the desolate embrace of his narrative world.

The xenomorph made his way back into his old story, living and reliving his tale of hunting, killing, and serving his Queen. Each cycle culminated to M.T.'s abrupt end at the hands of  _the Ripley_ , who'd developed a keen sense for killing his kind. After which, he'd repeated this narrative again and again.

But... _one day_...

One day, M.T. happened to remember the last thing he'd seen before rejoining his hive. The image of a shuttle craft flashed through his mind. It'd... _distracted_ him. M.T. tried to ignore these intrusive thoughts and continue on with his usual routine of mauling space marines... but... that shuttle craft simply would not disappear from thought. Images of it came to mind more and more frequently, especially at times of heightened stress – right around those crucial moments before _the_ _Ripley_ would put him down. With each passing narrative cycle, the frequency of these thoughts grew worse, almost as if the memory had been burned into his monstrous psyche.

So, one day, M.T. strayed from his hive, following that familiar trail back to the shuttle. The craft was still there, although its interior was in shambles from the alien's whirlwind of an exit on the day he'd returned. Nevertheless, the xenomorph skulked around, inspecting the vessel, wondering _why_ it was there. _Why, why, why?_ His mind asked questions it wouldn't have otherwise asked; questions that only an awakened psyche, having _once_ been dragged away from the intoxication of the Skein, could pose.

The Nexus' mind-wipe appeared to be weakening. The closer M.T. advanced to the shuttle – as if a remnant from his experience outside of the Skein acted as a trigger – the more that each memory from the Nexus slipped back into mind. They'd become... _unlocked_. Yes. He remembered now. Those _people_ had come. They'd taken him far from his Queen, far from her voice. They tried to _communicate_ with him. Tried to talk to him, tried to _train_ him. M.T. remembered their blood spilled more easily than the blood of those space marines. It surely spilled more easily than that of _the Ripley,_ whose blood could not, and never did, spill.

M.T. shuddered.

At least... he shuddered as much as a creature of his unfathomable persuasion _could_ shudder. He knew what had happened to him, and because of that, he knew he was trapped within a vicious cycle of storytelling. But this...  _story..._ it was all the alien knew. M.T. had no reason to leave his _home_. He would die alongside the others again and again if it meant being a part of their nest. There was an instinct at play, here. A hard wired instinct, cruelly bred into M.T. through a callous narrative that gave his kind _no_ _desire_ to break free, even in the wake of enlightenment. 

And... with that - with all the knowledge M.T. had regained, as if he'd eaten a forbidden fruit - the xenomorph turned away from the Nexus shuttle craft and retraced his steps back toward the bewitching call of his hive.

 

 


	16. A Fallen God

“Gray...”

The Mediterranean sun had begun to rise over the sea. A glance of light peeked above the distant horizon. That sliver of sunshine, alone, flooded Nuna's royal quarters with the warm glow of fresh daybreak. She rolled over in her lavish bed, dragging along the thin, indigo bed linens with the entwine of her body. Nuna looked around. Aside from herself, the bed – even the room – was devoid of anyone else.

“ _Gray?_ ” she repeated, her voice more urgent. The light in the room swelled to a deeper orange. Nuna felt its warmth, as if it _wrapped_ around her like a weightless, tepid cloak.

A voice in her mind croaked with a familiar growl.

_**Nuna Shine.** _

Sitting up in her bed, she glanced around the glowing room. “Are you... still _here_?” she asked aloud.

_**I am.** _

“This ... _light_ ,” whispered Nuna, her eyes bouncing all around. “This orange light... it's _you_ , isn't it?”

_**Yes.** _

“But I thought it was dangerous. You seemed very adamant–”

_**You're a god. This is but a taste of what I am. I cannot harm you. Not like this.** _

Nuna stood from the bed, nude, albeit bathed in an extradimensional light. She eyed the apparel Ninshubur had presented to her the day before. Without pause, the operative began to slip the items onto her body, dressing herself from head to toe. The cuirass hugged her frame perfectly – its metallic neckline dipping low enough to show off her lapis lazuli necklace. Imagining her sukkal's disgust, Nuna redressed her lower half in her Nexus operative pants, manufactured with state-of-the-art protective material. Looking like a hybrid between something old and something new, she sighed. An ancient god-warrior, sporting heat-resistant kevlar – what a sight. Nuna picked up the golden, pointed crown and hooked it to her belt rather than decorating her head with the infernal thing. She feared it'd fall off, and she'd thought it made a better trinket than anything else.

“I remember my narrative,” Nuna announced to the floating orange light that blanketed the space within her chambers.

**Indulge me.**

“The story doesn't end well for me,” she continued. “At least... not until my father, Enlil, the god of storms, comes to my rescue and I leave behind my _cheating_ husband, Dumuzid, in my stead. Prior to all that, my sister, Ereshkigal, ambushed me at the gates before I even made it to her husband's – Gugalanna's – funeral. She had her gatekeeper, Neti, force me to strip at least one garment for each of the seven gates. By the time I reached my sister, I was naked and stripped of my power. I was at the mercy of Ereshkigal, but _she has no mercy_. Instead, she condemned me to a fate worse than execution. She possesses an orb called the Eye of Death. It has powers that can weaken, _even destroy_ , a god – _any_ god. Ereshkigal touched the Eye of Death to my body, turning me into a rotting lump of dead meat. Then she hung me on a metal hook and fastened it to the wall of her royal hall, displaying my dead flesh as a trophy for all of the underworld to see.” Nuna paused. Her eyes glared so fiercely at the rod of power in her hand that her vision began to blur. “I cannot – I _refuse –_ to go through that narrative again!” Her breathing intensified. All the while, the orange light gathered itself to a collective spot in the center of the room, swirling into a solid, familiar form. “I want that Eye of Death!” she growled. “And I want to make my sister _pay_ for what she put me through!”

Pennywise the dancing clown now stood in the room, no longer a swell of light, but his usual, corporeal self. Approaching Nuna from behind, he delicately cupped both gloves to the rounds of her shoulders. The clown towered over the operative god-queen. With grace, he leaned downward and lightly whispered into Nuna's ear – the prominent curve of his lips warmly tickling the skin of its auricle. “Perhaps Ereshkigal knows the details of your unwarranted _rescue_. Perhaps we can force her to explain as to how you ended up on the Nexus, living a lie.”

Nuna's cold gaze hardened even more. Ereshkigal _must_ have been privy to the rescue. _Somehow_. “I will end her.” Nuna's uttered words vengefully cut the air like a blade. She no longer spoke from anger, alone. She spoke with conviction. Her tone dripped with such determination that there was no doubt Nuna may sacrifice her _own_ life in order to end Ereshkigal's.

Concerned, Pennywise's hands, still delicately cupped to her shoulders, now grasped her more firmly. He slowly turned the operative toward him. The eldritch creature's affection was ever-growing for this... _god-queen._ He brushed a lock of dark hair away from Nuna's eyes, like a child doting over their most prized doll. Perhaps there was some shallow degree of affection he bestowed upon her, though it inevitably led to something _deeper_ , anchoring Pennywise to Nuna like a leaden rope to a balloon.

“Then we ignore your narrative!” he laughed, grinning wickedly. “We'll _sneak_ into this... underworld. We'll go undetected to attend this funeral.”

“How?”

“ _Together_ ,” answered the clown, his catlike grin widening across his painted cheeks. “You are a god, are you not, Nuna Shine?”

She nodded.

“ _I_ am _no_ god,” he confessed. A hint of envy flashed in his yellow eyes. “But _I_ can change form.” Pennywise leaned closer to Nuna, searching her expression for mutual understanding. “Can a _god_ not do the same?”

 

* * *

 

Dr. Jessie Fallengod monitored her staff from a dim corner of her lab. They were in the process of completing the necessary upgrades to a massive containment cell affixed to the center of her spacious workshop. Staff had been working for days. In that time, the doctor had already sent the message to Nuna's ship, informing the operative of Lestat's confinement and subsequent conditions for his release.

HQ was still awaiting Nuna's response.

Anna, one of Fallengod's many employees, wearily approached – her face streaked with sweaty grease marks resulting from the arduous labor of the last ten hours. “Can _you_ replicate this missing part?” Anna handed Fallengod a rudimentary blueprint – hand drawn, no less.

“Yes,” answered the doctor, who sat at her work table, jotting notes and sipping from a coffee mug.

“That's the only part missing that we need. After we get _that_ – the containment cell will be fully operational.” Anna pushed her greasy blond hair behind her ears and cleared her throat. “Doctor...”

“Yes?”

“I have my doubts about the reliability of this ... _machine_.”

“Once we get that part in place, it _will_ work,” assured Fallengod, barely looking up from her notes.

“You're sure about that?” asked Anna. “You're sure it can trap an entity and keep it from teleporting away?”

“Long enough for a mind wipe and tranquilization, yes.” Fallengod took another sip of her drink.

“What about its telekinesis? Its telepathy? We've never tested the restriction of either.”

The doctor put down her pen and looked up at Anna. “No,” she pursed her dark, plum lips. “We haven't. But as I said, there won't be much time for it to make a difference. I want the machine to work _fast_. We trap It. Tranq It. Then the machine will send It back to Its narrative. That's all that matters. Now... if you _please_.” The doctor gestured for her employee to return to work so that she may do the same.

Anna sighed, then nodded, turning away to finish the job she'd been assigned.

Jessie Fallengod picked up her pen. She wanted to continue her research notes, but _old_ _thoughts_ got in the way. A memory. An intrusive one – something she hadn't stewed on in quite some time. With the disappearance of Nuna, the question of Its relationship to her, and the doctor now treading thin ice with _the three..._ well... Fallengod couldn't help but remember her earliest experience on the Nexus.

After Jessie had first arrived to the Nexus world, _Tara_ had been a woman Fallengod had been watching for a little over a year. Watching from the shadows – following her wherever she went. Tara was an inspiration to Jessie. She wasn't _Tara_ at first. She was Phillip. A man. Jessie followed a man who never wished to be a man. A man who'd always felt that he was a woman. He knew it, deep down, in his core. If there was such a thing as a soul, that was where Phillip knew that he was, in reality, _Tara._ Phillip made a terrible man. Not terrible like a criminal – just terrible in the most literal sense. In spite of such a biological mishap at birth, Phillip _was_ truly always a _she._ At heart, he _was_ Tara, after all. Tara was the _good_ in Phillip. Phillip, in of his tangible self, was an innocent mistake on mother nature's part. After his consultations, ongoing hormonal treatments, and the inevitable, finalized surgeries, Phillip was no longer a terrible man, but a whole, _perfect_ woman. _He had become Tara._

Jessie was fascinated by this concept of _freedom_. She envied it – this ability to become exactly who and what you _wanted_ to be. Tara was tall and beautiful with long, dark hair. She wore dark makeup which made her look all the more exotic and intoxicating. Of course, she'd gradually worked on this appearance for many years, even prior to the moment Jessie took notice of Phillip.

The secret here is this: Jessie wasn't _always_ Jessie. She had been... _another_. When her shuttle craft arrived to the Nexus, Jessie had no others to accompany her on board. They were dead. When the operatives arrived to her narrative world, Jessie had killed everyone who attempted to “rescue” her. But she wasn't _Jessie_ when she did such terrible things. She was... a god. A killer. A _tyrant_. Her entire life had been a lie. A ... _narrative._ She'd been robbed of her agency – and she didn't even know it. At least Phillip _knew_ it! Phillip was able to make a plan. Phillip worked hard at his transition into Tara. Jessie, however, was thrust into this new world of identity crisis.

The _fallen god_.

Jessie's original name was Ereshkigal. When those operatives had arrived, she learned that her life was all a fabrication. All bullshit. To make matters worse, it had existed on a loop. _A loop!_ Like a nightmare. She arrived quietly to the Nexus and made herself scarce – _invisible_. A god can do these things. She lived in the shadows. She made her plans. For once, _she_ finally had the freedom to create a plan of _her_ own. The fallen god followed Phillip who had eventually become Tara. She killed poor Tara, hiding all evidence of the murder, including the woman's brand new body. And from that point on, Ereshkigal assumed the identity of Dr. Jessie Fallengod, shapeshifting into the likeness of Tara. The trans woman had been Fallengod's muse, after all; her persona of choice.

Phillip, the man, faded into all things forgotten. Tara, the woman, had been _so new_ that it was difficult for anyone to have even fully _known_ her, especially by her new name. Ereshkigal selected the name of _her_ choosing and took the body's appearance from there. She moved far away from Tara's social circles, what meager ones they'd been. Such was the life of a person attempting difficult transitions. Phillip had lost many relationships as it were, ergo there was little challenge for Fallengod to disappear from the notice of the man's _not-so-loved_ ones. Perhaps Ereshkigal, in all her opportunistic wickedness, was one of the few who had loved Tara for who she truly was. It was a dark love. A distorted love. And to Tara's misfortune, a deadly love that she could never reciprocate - one she never saw coming.

Jessie sipped from her mug once again, watching her staff continue their labor. They had no idea their doctor was just a Rescue in disguise. No one knew. It was Fallengod's _worst_ secret, guarded deep in her psyche with the utmost scrutiny, even from the likes of meddling, clownlike telepaths.

Swallowing her drink, Jessie remembered the first impression she'd left on _the three,_ not long after visiting N.E.R.F. HQ in her new form. It was quite the opposite of the abysmal impression they'd had of her now.

“ _What if I were able to offer you a stronger weapon than the ones you now have? A weapon that could bring down the Blue Planet, if all else came to that? Like a fail safe...”_

“ _Go on,” said Pinhead._

“ _We're listening,” hissed Medusa._

“ _What would this weapon be?” asked Dr. Lecter._

“ _Inanna. Some call her Ishtar. She is a god,” answered Jessie. “She is a god of many things – sex, love, procreation. But she is also a god of conquest. She is the god of war. Perhaps she is not a villain, per say, but she would come in handy as a Rescue-turned-operative. And, should the time come, whenever the three of you decide the fate of the Blue Planet, Inanna could wage destruction on it by your command, forever securing its lands as yours. We could free the rest of the Rescues and continue with our altruistic mission.”_

_The three listened intently to Dr. Jessie Fallengod's suggestions. She seemed to have every detail plotted out, from Inanna's mind wipe and training, to her subsequent reawakening as a weapon of war. The three had considered subduing the Blue Planet for some time now, given the challenge of maintaining so many Rescues over the years._

_Jessie hugged her clipboard to her chest as she continued to persuade the three. “I have written up the specifics. I can share my notes and information with you, as long as you secure a position for me within your HQ. You'll be needing to do so if you aspire to tame a god. I am the only one who retains the particulars of this careful methodology in order to execute this plan.”_

Dr. Fallengod's mug was empty. She pushed it away. Such a long time ago, that was. So many failures which led up to this point. Jessie wouldn't have it, though. She would not give up. Her _sister_ always found a way to turn her into a failure. _Not this time, Inanna._

Not this time.

 


	17. The Prisoner

The sewer system below the temple of Inanna was, for the most part, crudely designed. It had been a primitive drainage system but its structure, like most sewers, retained a certain familiarity to the likes of Pennywise. He promised Nuna he could lead her down until they reached the space beyond the trench. After that, it was up to her to take them the rest of the way. She agreed. Through the temple's pipes and waterways both the clown and the god-queen had descended, but not in their familiar forms. No. They moved downward as _rats._

“Rats,” Pennywise explained, “are _unassuming_. No one thinks it odd for a _rat_ to be in a _sewer_. And would anyone think it odd for a rat to cross into the underworld?”

“Not according to memory, no,” Nuna had told him.

And so, _rats_ they became. One white with glowing, red eyes. One black with milky cataracts. In regard to the latter, Nuna was still able to see quite well. The appearance of _blindness_ in her vermin form was nothing more than an illusion. And so, the two scurried along the ancient sewer system depths, deeper down they went, until all signs of the archaic plumbing had but disappeared. The earth surrounding the pair of rodents blackened the farther down they traveled. It was a treacherous, but assuring, sign that the pair had been following the correct path.

At one point, they passed by a floating body of water – its location was undeniably _alien_ in the dead center of the earth. Nuna immediately recognized it. It was _Abzu –_ the place from which all other sources of water drew their springs. It was the _primeval sea_. The water, itself, was the purest of blue. _Clean_. Primitive aquatic life circled and swam within its widespread confines. They appeared to be creatures that had long since been extinct on the Blue Planet, but seemed to thrive within this otherworldly, mid-earth aquifer.

Pennywise stared in silence, his little red eyes fixed on the massive waterway. He offered no commentary on the matter. For, it had dawned on the little white rat that the world into which he was born – the world of Derry – was quite small, by comparison, to the boundless world outside that spun stories _this_ ancient.

And thus, the two moved on.

Darker and darker the surrounding muck became until all that _dwelled beneath_ opened up into a dreary cavern enclosed with an ornate, limestone door. The door was as tall as a building and as wide as whale. From top to bottom, it had been etched deep with ancient runework, carved by a tool of unknown power.

Linking their rat minds, Nuna and Pennywise spoke silently to one another.

_Gray, this is the entrance to Ereshkigal's lair – the underworld. We need to find another way in. Neti, the gatekeeper, awaits on the other side._

_**Not to worry, Nuna Shine! Any door as imposing as this is a compensation for weakness. There must be a deficiency somewhere along the wall.** _

Pennywise the _sneaking rat_ hurried off. Nuna promptly moved all four of her little legs to keep up with him.

_**The light. Always look for the light.** _

And sure enough, along the farthest edge of the entrance's perimeter, a peek of incandescence glinted through a _very_ small crack in the stone.

_**The weakness presents itself.** _

Pennywise's pink, little rat nose twitched as he sniffed his way closer to the light. His whiskers twittered eagerly as he scratched and dug his tiny, white claws at the hole. Bit by bit, small pebbles broke away, revealing a perfectly _rat sized_ entry hole.

_**After you, Nuna Shine.** _

Nuna squeezed her fuzzy, black body through. The red-eyed, white rat followed. On the other side, Nuna spied Neti standing guard at the front gate. The chief doorman wore a turban and a massive, flowing cape woven together with vibrant, colorful beetle wings. It glittered beneath what meager light illuminated this ancient, dark foyer. He held a large staff made of solid bronze. It was twice his height and must have weighed more than a man.

_Keep moving, Gray. Follow me. We do not want to catch the attention of the Gatekeeper._

The two scurried along, bypassing each of the seven gates until they reached the entrance to the palace – Ereshkigal's dwelling. Much like the necklace Ninshubur had presented to Nuna, the palace was constructed of lapis lazuli, and it stood taller than the greatest mountain. Its parapets and embrasures towered so far above that they went unseen by the naked eye.

It had been named _Ganzir_ – the Palace of Eternity.

After bypassing its front gate, the two rats had officially entered into the raw center of the underworld, more commonly known as _Kur_. Its inhabitants were comprised mainly of the wandering, naked bodies of the dead, silently ambling here and there, continuing a shadowy version of their former lives on earth. Some were clothed in feathers, but simply feathers of unimpressive birds – fowl often used as meat; chicken, pheasant, and duck. In their hands they held cups and plates, as if they'd been awarded the privilege of dining and drinking just as the living did. However... in their cups, and on their plates, was only an endless, dry dust – the dead's sole indulgence. The dust had settled everywhere, in fact. It wafted in the air, it caked along their bare skin, and it coated the flooring beneath their dry, shuffling feet.

Quietly, the _unassuming_ _rats_ continued their trek.

Pennywise's pink, ropy tail flipped this way and that as he hurried behind the black she-rat. _**What, precisely, is our destination, Nuna Shine?**_

_Ereshkigal's chambers – where she sleeps. I know she keeps the Eye of Death in there, and if she sleeps now, I will kill her with it._

_**And if she no longer sleeps?** _

Nuna's cloudy eyes narrowed into her long, black snout. _I will kill her with it._

As they continued, the underworld was not only home to wandering souls consuming dust and sand, but also home to demons. Aside from the patterned march of Ereshkigal's black-horned soldiers – the ones who dragged mortals to this hell... the ones who called themselves the _gallu_ – there were others traipsing about, as well.

Nuna recognized Lamashtu, the hideous child devourer. She was a female demon, though some believed her to be a malevolent demigoddess. Regardless of which breed she'd been, Lamashtu was the one who menaced women during childbirth. She kidnapped their children while breastfeeding and ate them, bones and blood and all. Strangely enough, Lamashtu was the daughter of Anu, the Sky God. In spite of such celestial breeding, however, she was hideous. Her massive body was lion-like, covered in soiled, wiry hair. She had the wide overbite, and long ears, of a donkey. Her fingernails were yellowed, twisted, and sharp. Her feet were those of a bird – leathery, clawed, and talonlike. Lamashtu was often found residing in the underworld, just as Nuna saw her now, cradling a writhing nest of snakes in one arm – and breastfeeding a pig in the other.

The white rat stared at the donkey-headed demon in awe, experiencing a hint of terror that he'd never thought possible. Pennywise found himself trapped in a state of _reverence_ , admittedly – but more prominently than that... there had been _fear_. Without a single need for telepathy, he knew that _this_ evil entity had far outlived him in legend, alone. Lamashtu was none with which to be reckoned, not even by the likes of a contemporary voidcreature such as himself. If only the humans of Derry had even a _shred_ of knowledge about these ancient villains, he'd thought. So many untapped fears he could have – _and would have_ – embodied...

The two continued on.

Nuna hurried, but along the way, her eyes came across another familiar face. _Geshtinanna_. She sat alone at a tall table with a long, black quill. The table was taller than three men should they be standing atop one another's shoulders. Geshtinanna sat as if she were in a chair, but there was no chair beneath her. She simply floated, hunched over a great book covered in that same dust which coalesced in the barely breathable air. She was the scribal demon, who – like the dead – ate nothing but dry dust all while recording the names of each who entered the underworld. Geshtinanna wore a shroud of pearled chitin, torn from the abdomens of scorpions. It hung all the way to the ground, waving in a ghostlike way in spite of the stagnant, hellish air. As each naked inhabitant slowly emerged from the sands below, her black quill endlessly moved.

Nuna averted her eyes from the scribal demon, hoping she'd take no notice of a little, black rat and its white companion. _Keep up, Gray._

_**You don't have to ask me twice.** _

After some time, they managed to cover all the ground between the first gate and the inside of Ereshkigal's private chambers. The two slipped under the gap in the threshold of her grand doors and entered the room within. Upon entry, it was evident that Ereshkigal was not present. The place had been ransacked. Chairs and tables were knocked to the floor, vases smashed, and tapestries had been torn from the very walls and windows.

The two, small rats shifted back into their original forms.

“What happened here?” asked Nuna, lifting a splintered jewelry box from the smashed surface of a wrought-iron vanity. The mirror had been shattered. Broken glass littered the surrounding floor.

Pennywise took a deep breath through his red nose. A half smile inched its way up the painted red line on his cheek. “I smell blood.” He glanced at the operative. “Can't _you_ smell it?”

Nuna shook her head. “I don't think that's one of my specialties.”

Pennywise sniffed harder, scrunching his illustriously outlined face. “Over there...” he pointed with a long gloved finger. Like some kind of wingless fey creature, he glided above the shambles and mess crowding the floor space. The toes of his festive boots never touched the ground. He moved deeper into the chambers, disappearing around a corner into an adjacent space on the farther end.

Nuna followed after him, kicking the broken furniture and debris out of her way. As she rounded that same corner, the god-queen stopped and gasped. _Bodies_. An entire pile of them. These weren't the bodies of the dead who meandered along the palace grounds. These were _real_ people – _real_ bodies. Blood must have pooled and dried around them, which was how easily the clown had picked up the scent. Each of them wore Nexus armor.

“Weren't these _your_ people?” asked Pennywise. “Seems they'd come to rescue the Queen of the Dead?”

“And _failed_ ,” Nuna muttered, grimly. She licked her lips, then pressed them together, thinking. With a steady exhale through her nose, she added, “There was _no_ ship docked here. This was a failed rescue mission. N.E.R.F. would have collected the bodies _along with_ the ship.”

“Unless?”

“Unless someone returned the ship, making it _look_ like the operatives had returned via the computer system. Clocking each of them in... _somehow._ ” Nuna put her hands on her hips, then shook her head. “ _She's_ not here. She took that damn ship. She took it back to the Nexus – she must have.” The operative continued shaking her head. “She's been on the god damn Nexus _this whole time._ ”

The clown's yellow eyes squinted as he floated a bit higher in the air and performed a whimsically slow somersault in tandem with his following queries. “Can Ereshkigal compromise a computer system? Can she pilot a ship?”

“She's a god.” Nuna clenched her jaw. “And she's always been the _smart_ one.”

“Are _you_ the idiot?” Pennywise grinned.

“Very funny!” Nuna whipped around and stormed back toward the chamber doors.

“Wait! I was joking, Nuna Shine!” The clown soared after her, grabbing the operative by her arm as he touched his feet to the floor. Using the leverage of his height, he pulled at Nuna, urging her not to barge out those doors, sternly warning that it wasn't safe for _either_ of them. Nuna pushed Pennywise away and continued to stampede toward the exit, uncaring about the consequences, as if she wished to be caught and thrown into a prison cell. The clown zipped back by Nuna's side, wrenched her by both arms and, with every shred of his cosmic being, he teleported the two of them away to the exact location of the shuttle craft.

The pair materialized within the cramped bunk space of the ship, nearly knocking their heads together as they crashed into the door frame of its entryway.

“I didn't think that was funny!” yelled Nuna, stumbling at the clown, her face flushed with anger. The hum of the ship caught her ears and she looked around, somewhat bewildered by the sudden change in environment. Her eyes went wide. “Couldn't we have _teleported_ into the underworld?”

“I had no concept of where that hellhole was!” barked the clown. “But I _know_ exactly where you left the ship!”

Frustrated, she planted both hands on his lanky body, attempting to shove him away, barely able to make him budge. Pennywise was strong – strong enough against even a god-queen.

“Shush, shush,” soothed the clown. He gripped her wrists and moved them off of his torso. Still clutching the operative by the arms, he pulled her close. “There, there, Nuna Shine.” His voice transitioned from its usual croaky speech to a smooth whisper. “So... Ereshkigal is on the Nexus. Do you suspect the Eye of Death is there, with her?”

“It has to be. She would not have left it behind.” Nuna's eyes welled with tears as she rhetorically begged the question, “She's been there this whole time? She could have killed me this whole time? Why hadn't she? _What_ was she waiting for?”

Pennywise pulled Nuna closer and whispered against the thick hair of her scalp. “Perhaps she wants you alive... for now.”

“I have to go back. Will you come with me?”

The clown remained silent for some time. He _had_ secretly made up his mind, much earlier on, that he would retreat to his void – perhaps to begin a long rest. He was soon due for one. But Nuna seemed to need him... and there was that ever-growing... _desire_... to help her. Pennywise _had_ helped her get this far. The clown didn't understand where this sensation came from – this... _affection_. He'd taken to her, helped her escaped, and even shared a night with her – _why?_

“If, perhaps, you _didn't_ go back to the Nexus and let bygones be bygones, would your sister just... leave you alone?”

Nuna shook her head into the ruffed, pompom'd pleats of the clown's chest. “Absolutely not. She would hunt me down. If I don't get to her _first_... she'll find me when I least expect it. What she plans to do with me... I don't know. She has never taken to simply _killing_ me. She has always wanted me as her prisoner – her trinket. She–” Nuna stopped. A repetitive beeping suddenly caught her attention. The sound must have been looping for some time, but she was so discomposed she didn't notice it right away. Moving away from Pennywise, Nuna walked toward the front of the shuttle craft, eyeing the communication panel near the navigation array.

A message.

There was a message transmitted to the ship.

She pressed the button to receive the message's playback.

_Nuna, this is Dr. Fallengod. We are sending this message to you in order to negotiate an agreement regarding your return. Currently, Lestat de Lioncourt resides in our holding cells. There are numerous criminal counts against him. He is due for a hearing within the coming weeks. It doesn't look good for your friend. You... do consider Mr. Lioncourt your friend, do you not? Anyway, if you return to the Nexus, unarmed and willing to undergo psychological evaluation and treatment, then we will agree to expunge Mr. Lioncourt's criminal charges, waive the hearing, and release him. He may return to work without any disciplinary marks on his employment record, or he can move on somewhere else if he so chooses. What matters is that you come back to us, Nuna. We are here to help, but you need to work with us. Please respond to this message within the week._

With a soft click, the message ended abruptly.

Nuna stared off. Not quite at the communication panel, itself. More like... she stared right through it.

Pennywise walked up behind her, tilting his broad, crimson head. “ _Must_ we go back and bother ourselves with that little leech of a man? _Really?_ ”

Nuna continued to stare. Some unseen realization appeared to have arrested the operative's emotions. _It's all happening again. Exchanging one prisoner for another..._

“What was that? Come again?” Pennywise surmised he'd _heard_ a thought flash through the operative's mind, but he didn't quite catch it. “Nuna Shine?” He gently touched her shoulder.

“It's her.”

“What?”

“It's _her_. Dr. Fallengod.” Nuna paused. “She's my sister.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	18. The Tale of Mister Robert "Bob" Gray

At this time, dear readers, we must take a moment to break away from our narrative at hand. Because, at this time, we need to focus on a different narrative to understand the current story, the stories we've read, and the stories we will, _someday_ , read.

Pennywise the Dancing Clown came from a story widely known – widely loved. But as it were, the words jumped off the pages of that book and landed in a collection of minds – a hive of thoughts. The named “Robert 'Bob' Gray” became a topic of focus, for so little had been _officially_ written about him. The monster took the name, true as gold, and that was the word of God – or rather... that was the word of the monster's creator, Its _author_. Beyond that name, not much else was known about Mister Gray, and certainly nothing else was ever, _or had ever_ , been explained.

Bob Gray became the start of a question. “Gray” was a query, a thing of mystery that so many desired to solve. Through readers' own suppositions they did conceive various tales about “Mister Gray” – who he was, what he did, and _how_ he became an urban legend.

Mister Gray.

Bob Gray.

Robert Gray.

Each of those whispers, those quandaries, those theories, those amateur fictions... they led to arguments, debates, and essays – but none of them were one hundred percent accurate.

_However..._

None of them were one hundred percent _wrong_ , either.

A good story is an amalgam of half stories. Tales pieced together like an epic foil ball, containing only the _most_ compelling bits carefully cherry-picked from the bunch.

So this, dear readers, is the actual, true-to-god, story of Mister Robert “Bob” Gray. Would I lie to you? Me? Your storyteller? Why yes – that's what any good storyteller _would_ do. So, as I'd said in the beginning: _If you don't trust me... then stop reading._ _Are we ready? Let us begin..._

 

 

The Tale of Mr. Robert “Bob” Gray (better known as) Pennywise the Dancing Clown

 

Gray was a man between the age of thirty and thirty-five, and he was a tall man with sandy-brown hair and striking blue eyes. True enough, his hands were large, his fingers long, and his legs put him around six and a half feet tall. He wasn't a _heavy_ man, but by no means was he scrawny – not at his height and certainly not at his age.

Gray was indeed an immigrant from Sweden who had, at the ripe age of seventeen, sailed over to the northeasternmost region of the great United States of America. He did _indeed_ come over to the land of the free with little else but spare change and a willingness to work – even if it broke his back. Now, understand this... his name wasn't _Bob Gray_ back in the old country. No. His birth-given name was _Robert Gr_ _å_. Just like that, with the funny circle above it and everything, or so the Americans said. Hell, it meant the _same damn thing_ between the languages, but those American types sure relied heavily on everything being spelled out in English. And so... Robert _Gray_ it became – or _Bob_ if someone was feeling particularly informal.

By his twenties, Bob had made a name for himself in the township of Derry, Maine. In so much that he was the man you'd call on if you'd needed odd jobs done. Some farm work here. Some machinist work there. And every year there'd be a carnival that rolled through Derry, as sure as rain. The event lasted through a long, summer weekend, and when it was over, those carnies packed up that carnival like stuffing socks in a suitcase. You'd better believe Bob Gray was willing to help out with the odd jobs at this event. It was only for a weekend, but the coin was good.

A carnie – a real leathery fella – by the nickname of _Carnie Ron_ had been the one who'd personally tasked Bob Gray for the right wages. He'd set Bob to work on various chores like fixing things that went broke and restocking prizes, food, and refreshments as they'd been consumed (maybe once in awhile _thieved_ ) throughout the weekend. The downside for Bob was that this carnival only came once a year. A man needed to _live_ the rest of those twelve months. Regardless, he took what he could, worked his duties, and collected pay from Carnie Ron.

It wasn't until Bob's third year that things had changed. One of the carnie hands, _not_ Ron, asked Mister Gray to fill in as a clown – something to keep the younger kids entertained while their ma's and pa's drank themselves loose on cheap stout (which made them spend _all the more coin_ for the rest of the night).

And that's just what Bob did. He put on the clown suit, which was little more than a dingy, old pair of men's pajamas, and caked some white pancake makeup all over his sun-soaked face. Then, Mister Gray took a bit of red paint and gave himself a big, merry smile from ear to ear. He looked just like the Cheshire Cat, if that wicked old cat was ever the clownin' type.

“Hand me all those balloons,” Bob had told that same carnie hand, and – boy oh boy – Mister Gray took to being a clown like a duck takes to water. The kids got a dance out of him, silly voices, crazy faces, and each one of them walked away with their own balloon after they'd begged their ma's and pa's (til they were blue in the face, no less) for the extra coin to buy their very own from the clown. Why, Bob even took a paintbrush to the balloons and signed each one of them, like he'd been peddling out his very own autograph. (As if he'd been _anything_ to _anyone_ at the time, but for that measly hour, to _those_ kids, Mister Bob Gray was like a _god_.) Before he'd signed his first balloon, Bob had to think of a name on the fly. He saw those coins jingling in the youngsters' hands and it just came to him: _Pennywise_. Pennywise the clown. The clown that danced, even sang a tune or three, and handed off balloons with his signature and everything.

It wasn't long after that day that Bob Gray got to thinking that he could do this for a living. He could entertain, sing, dance, and overcharge for cheap balloons. (And he could do it more than _once_ per year!) So, with the money he'd saved thus far, Mister Gray bought an old, worn down caravan off Carnie Ron. He'd fixed her up and painted a likeness of his clownin' self across her side. Then he wrote the words, as big and as grand as he could: _**The Great Pennywise – The Dancing Clown.**_ And, sure enough, that had been Mister Bob Gray's modest source of income for years to come.

What Bob Gray _hadn't_ known was ...that in all that time... he was being _watched_. (And interestingly enough, he'd been watched by two very _different_ sets of eyes.)

The first, and prettiest, set of eyes that'd been watching Mister Gray from afar belonged to Miss Melody Sharp. She was a provocative young woman with a lean build and a face that could charm the skin off a snake. Her hair was thick and golden and often prettily decorated with some ribbons or another. Her eyes were deep and beautiful, like a pair of sparkling sapphires. One look from her and it could melt any man's heart. (Well... _almost_ any man's.) It was true. Miss Melody was a lovely thing, and even lovelier was her soul. She'd help just about any person in need, no questions asked. Miss Sharp was a kind girl with a gentle touch and a soothing voice. Why, her tone was so pacifying that her own birth-given name didn't do it justice. Yes, just about any man in the Derry township could agree that listening to Miss Melody Sharp speak was like being serenaded by a warm, beautiful song.

Now... don't ask me why... but poor Melody, for some unholy reason, had her sweet heart set on Mister Bob Gray. One could theorize that she took to him because he'd been so _engaging_ in his performances. Perhaps he amused her which had, in some way, _bewitched_ the sweet girl. One could also argue that she took to him because, admittedly, Mister Gray _was_ a handsome man with those unconventionally attractive Scandinavian looks. Oh sure – he was tall and strong and his eyes were piercing blue. So blue, in fact, you could swear that god himself plucked two pieces of the sky and stuffed them right in Gray's sockets on the day he'd come squalling into the world.

So, without a doubt, Miss Melody Sharp had fallen for Mister Bob Gray. Unfortunately – because life just isn't fair, even if you _are_ as darling and as elegant as Miss Sharp – the man could have cared less. She came around after his shows while he'd been winding down back behind the caravan, and it was always the same sad story.

“Evening, Robert!” she'd say with the prettiest smile. “I baked you a shepherd's pie.” And little Melody would approach Mister Gray, often times while he was still in his clown makeup, offering the man some _painstakingly_ handmade gift or another. Poor thing. She went a-courtin' after Bob, day in and day out, never quite getting the hint that he was dead set on remaining a lifelong bachelor.

“Thank you, Miss Melody,” he'd always say, without so much as looking at her. His tone was often quiet, unimpressed, perhaps with a hint of eagerness for her to _just go away_. Now, there was nothing actually _wrong_ with Mister Gray. Nothing criminal about him. He simply wasn't interested. Some folk balked at his persistent indifference to Miss Sharp, and that's how rumors circulated, but – true as gold – Bob only cared about Bob.

Melody didn't see this for what it was. She persisted in her own way, in spite of his antipathy. “There's a dance at the local hall coming up...” That was her usual line when that time of year came around. “Gee, I'd hate to go alone...”

But of course, Bob Gray, with that thick head of sandy hair sitting on that prominent forehead of his would look down at the hopeful, young woman, clear his throat, and say, “I'm sure you'll manage.” Then he'd turn right back around and stare into that mirror of his as he wiped his makeup from his skin.

Melody had taken Bob for a coy man, which was part of her whole denial over the issue. In spite of his day to day vocation, she was convinced he was _shy_. And that was the long and short of their _relationship,_ if you had the cheek to call it such a thing.

Then... there had been the _other_ set of eyes watching Bob Gray. These eyes were much different from those of Melody Sharp. These had been the devil's eyes. Eyes from another place – a dark place – not anywhere bright enough to be considered another _world._ It was like an _unworld_. A void. Nowhere that any man or woman would willingly go. Perhaps it'd been a place that led straight to hell for all one knew. Hell or death. Or perhaps both.

What _is_ known about the Derry township is that a great evil thrived somewhere at its core. This was an unfortunate truth, one that no citizen wanted to advertise, but a truth with which every citizen was all too familiar. Some said the town was cursed. Others said that the _evil_ bore the town, itself. There was no true agreement on the matter, but, true enough, it had been the same evil that plagued Derry in its later years to come. It was the same evil that eventually caused the Ironworks Factory explosion, the same evil that burned down the Black Spot. Hell, it was the same evil that skyrocketed both the citywide death toll and the headcount of missing children at an alarming rate. This evil... It had a _mind._ It was conscious. It was self aware. And, regrettably, It took notice of Mister Robert Gray.

For a brief time, It merely _watched_ him. It studied everything about Gray – his daily routine, his habits, his apparel, and his performances. It _took_ to him, you see. It took to his likeness. In a way, It envied Gray – how easily he drew in crowds of people. _Gray_ simply saw them as potential meal tickets... easy coin.

But **It**...

It saw them as potential _meals_. Plain and simple.

Bob Gray hadn't been too difficult to drive to madness. No sir. All it took were some whispers in his mind, driving his thoughts to dark places, forcing the man to slowly become unhinged. Gray had begun to question his sanity the night he'd seen himself eat a boy. The creature – It – took to shapeshifting into the very spitting image of Bob Gray. It had strut around, looking exactly like him, right before his eyes, causing the man's mind to snap faster than a stale twig.

“I'm _you_ , Bob!” It had said, dragging around the half dead body of a bleeding and terrified boy. That _same_ boy had earlier been part of the paying crowd that gathered to see Gray's dancing clown performance. Gray screamed, night after night, watching a nightmarish facsimile of himself gruesomely eat away at the flesh and bone of one horrified patron or another.

Tragically, Bob Gray – the man – had become convinced that he, himself, _was_ the killer. Such a thing wasn't true, but try telling that poor son of a bitch that after the terrors he'd been forced to see. Becoming _unhinged_ didn't take long. No sir. Gray's grip on reality had long since slipped clean away and he couldn't live with himself any further. After two weeks of watching _the other Bob Gray,_ Mister Gray fastened a rope up to the branch of a tall tree, secured it snugly around his neck, and promptly took his own life.

The creature... It was delighted. With the real man out of the picture, It was able to take over his appearance, his caravan, and his dancing clown routine. It took over his life. _It_ was the new Mister Robert “Bob” Gray, now. It continued to feed off the patrons who came to see Pennywise do his dance – oh yes – like shooting fish in a barrel. Easy meals – and these types scared real easy, too. _It_ ...Gray... made their meat _jump_ with flavor.

The creature went by Bob's name, who frequently introduced _himself_ as Pennywise, just as his muse (now swinging from a tree) had done. Nothing seemed to be standing in his way to endless meals. No more hunting and starving. No more worrying that he couldn't fill his belly before his long sleep. The whole setup was about as convenient as running a farm.

One day, however, after a few weeks of this delicious _convenience,_ Miss Melody Sharp – oblivious and as innocent as pie – went calling on Mister Bob Gray just as she'd _always_ been apt to do. Melody circled the caravan, peeking around for him, but found that, as it were, he didn't appear to be home. The caravan was, indeed, the man's home. She knew this well. He wasn't the type to stray too far from it for too long. However... without warning – without even a _sound_ – Melody almost jumped out of her own skin when she turned to see Bob Gray just standing mere inches from her, as if he'd noiselessly appeared from thin air!

“Robert!” she'd yelped, raising a hand to her heaving chest. “You startled me half to death. That wasn't very kind, sir.” She chuckled a bit, for there was a part of Melody who had been _amused_ by her own shock, and so her chuckle turned into a laugh. Composing herself, she then beamed a warm smile to the tall man staring her down with intense eyes; a man who sported a grin that didn't seem to sit quite right on his comely face. It looked like the smile of the _clown_ , as if it had been glued, indefinitely, to Gray's lips. It did, indeed, give Melody pause before she continued. “I...” the young woman stammered, “I _made_ you something.”

He stared her up and down – she was dressed in a frilly, sky blue dress with white trim. It was warm that day, so her hair was done up in some fancy knotwork to which only pretty girls like Melody knew the secret method. Gray found her... _appealing_. Just that brief bounce of shock had sent an appetizing aroma to his sensitive nose – like fresh meat simmering in a spicy stew.

Melody handed him a box. It had been conscientiously gift-wrapped, almost too perfect to tear open. “Go on,” she smiled.

Without a word, Gray nimbly untied the white ribbon around the box, then ripped at the shiny, red paper, peeling it away from the parcel. The box was a simple paper cube, likely something she'd found in her attic. Melody's smile widened as she blushed a little. “Open it up, Robert.”

Gray popped and flipped open the paper flap and looked down. Inside, there was some sort of ivory fabric, pleated and lacy, made from some fancy material or another.

“Here,” huffed Melody, too excited to wait for him to take it out. “Let me.” Miss Sharp removed the item and draped it around Gray's neck. “See?” Ruffs. She'd sewn together custom-made, Elizabethean neck ruffs for the man's Pennywise costume. “I hope you _like_ it.” Still smiling and blushing, she awkwardly looked down.

Gray, he ... _It..._ had never been _given_ a gift before. Certainly nothing intended for the indulgence of his (Its) own _vanity._ He reached to the back of his neck and fastened the ruffs together, spying himself in one of the makeup mirrors. The ruffs, indeed, _looked good._ And because Gray _looked_ good, he felt a multitude of _good feelings_ wash over him in that instant. He turned to Miss Melody, clutched her delicate hand, stared into her eyes, and said, “Thank you, Miss Sharp. This is a _beautiful_ gift.”

Melody's blushing cheeks reddened even more. “Will you wear it to your next show?” she'd asked. Some part of her expected Robert to tell her _no,_ rip off the ruffs, stuff them back in that box, and send her on her way.

“Oh _yes,_ Miss Sharp. _Melody_. Yes I will wear it. I will wear it to every show.” He held her hands a bit tighter, now. Just a squeeze. Then, he let her go.

Melody's heart nearly melted. Meanwhile, Gray excused himself, but unlike in the past, he did so warmly, with a tone that seemed to say, “ _Oh Melody... please do come visit me again..._ ”

And so... she did. Miss Sharp, bless her innocent heart, did not realize the man called _Robert Gray_ – to whom she'd devoted the remainder of her free time on Earth – was truly not the same man as the one that snubbed her again and again. No. She visited nightly with a _foul_ thing. A skinwalker that had been asleep for billions of years, only having recently awoken within the last few hundred. Thereafter, It followed a sleep cycle of twenty-seven years only to emerge, hunt, and eat on the flesh of Derry folk, before returning to Its rest.

Melody was none the wiser, but she sure was _tickled_ to see Mister Bob Gray hungrily wolf down her shepherd's pie for once in her life. She wondered... did his feelings change for her? Had Robert finally warmed up to her advances? And oh how he wore her hand sewn neck ruffs! Each time she caught his act, he'd faithfully had them wrapped round his _oh-so-handsome_ collarbone. Melody was elated. Robert had _finally_ taken to her.

Now, this is the point in our tale, dear reader, where one might think this wicked creature had depraved plans for the likes of poor Miss Melody Sharp. Did the thought cross Gray's mind to plunge the delicate young maiden into her deepest fears and then proceed to eat her alive? Oh yes! This thought _did indeed_ cross Gray's mind – and more than once, _assuredly_.

But...

Melody had a _certain something_ about her. Even all the Derry men could agree on that. Perhaps even some of the Derry women, if you can open up your mind and wrap your head around such a thing. Sure enough, that _certain something,_ that unconditionally _giving_ nature of Melody's, well... it was powerful enough to transcend barriers even of the dark, extradimensional kind. People like Miss Sharp don't come around all too often. This dark tale goes to show just how much of a rarity she'd been. Perhaps her _certain something_ failed on the _real_ Robert Gray, but... on the likes of this entity... on this creature... it sure hadn't failed in the least. Gray's ability to probe deep into Miss Sharp's psyche and read her every whim had, unbeknownst to her, enchanted a monster. Not an easy feat to do. Sometimes it was what was on the _inside_ that counted... and in this case, it counted for one's very life.

Gray complimented Melody's shepherd's pie each and every time she'd brought it around, singing the utmost praise to its delicious texture and taste. The animal meat within had been seasoned _just right,_ almost enough to rival the scared, savory flesh of a quivering child.

“They say the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach,” Miss Sharp would laugh.

Gray laughed along with her, oh how he _laughed and laughed._ Sort of a haunting giggle, really, but Melody cheerfully paid no mind.

One night, Miss Sharp came to Gray, very nervous, hoping to ask him the same question she'd asked each year. The dance. She wanted him to accompany her to the dance at the local hall where _all_ of the township would surely be in attendance.

“Will you do me the honor?” she'd asked. “I know, I know. I ask _every_ year, but–”

“What about now?” said Gray.

Melody quirked a half smile. “N-now?”

Gray took her small hand in his, cupping his other hand to her slender waist. “Would you kindly dance with me _now_ Melody Sharp? Out here? Under the moonlight?”

On cue, her cheeks flushed and she smiled. “Of course, Mister Gray.” Miss Sharp couldn't believe it – she had won this man's heart.

Gray pulled her close, swaying gently, leading Melody along with his graceful strides. He rested his chin on the curve of her head as she felt the soothing heave of his chest against her face. For some time their quiet waltz continued, silently but beautifully, beneath the glow of the moon above, until Gray lifted her innocent face to meet his eyes. He leaned downward and gently kissed the young woman on her velvet, soft lips. She tasted as he'd imagined – sweet and fresh. Gray found himself unable to unlock his mouth from hers. Melody pressed against him in her own, eager way – meanwhile her small but firm hands cupped the rugged contours of his jawbone and neck.

Gray lifted Melody from her feet, still embracing, forever trapped in the perfect kiss. And the two eventually found themselves back inside his caravan, clothing off, making love on a bed roll stuffed with down. Melody had never lain with a man in all her life – and as far as Gray knew, she was assuredly his (Its) _first_ , as well. Their lovemaking was raw, but slow, bathed in a soft light provided by a neighboring kerosene lamp.

Gray had hunted the humans... had fed on the humans... but _this_...

“I love you,” Melody Sharp had whispered against his lips, now wet from her kisses.

It had been a phrase the humans said to each other when their affections had... _blossomed_. Gray, for all his evil and wickedness, could only hear himself utter those same words back to her.

“I love you too...” Even though this _monster_ had spent centuries playing deadly tricks on people, this was indeed no ruse. The creature that had driven Bob Gray to suicide, stole his life away, and murdered those who paid to see him dance, deeply felt _love –_ of all things – for Miss Melody Sharp.

And as she moaned and panted against Gray as he bucked his hips into her, he resolved to himself that while almost all humans were potential _meat –_ Melody Sharp certainly was _not._

Time went on and the two continued their trysts, but as all stories have a beginning, there must come the inevitable end. Whether Melody Sharp knew it or not – she'd trapped the heart of a monster. Not a small victory, which undeniably makes her the hero of this tale. In spite of how everything shall boil down in the end, Melody Sharp was the one who had _saved_ the monster inside of Mister Robert “Bob” Gray.

Now, Gray, for all that he (It) was... had been a cloud of malevolence cast over Derry. Perhaps, Melody did not perish by the wicked creature's hand in of itself – Its influence was still the death of her. Gray's corruption spread like a disease through the hearts of Derry residents far and wide. Murder. Rape. Arson. All accounts of such heinous deeds increased in frequency, namely when the creature's eyes were open.

Gray waited for Melody that night, as he always had each and every night. How he missed her when she was away. But Miss Melody never came to the caravan that night. She'd taken her usual walking path – oh yes – but this time some men had been waiting for the poor girl. They'd been watching Miss Sharp, memorizing her routine over the course of some time. These men knew that the young lady had coin on her and they were, unfortunately, the desperate criminal types in a rush to leave the great state of Maine. Now, be aware they _didn't_ violate Miss Melody – no they did not. As previously stated, they were in a rush. The thoughts _had_ crossed their ugly minds, sure, but the _coin_ was all they wanted. Truth be told, had Melody handed over her purse, then everyone would've walked away in one piece. But Miss Sharp, deep in her gracious heart, was a hero – she was a fighter. And, bless her efforts, she tried to fight off those men, but she lost that battle. She lost it hard.

In fact, it had been in that very moment when one of the men – whose eyes Melody had nearly clawed from his face – stuck his knife deep in her belly that Gray looked up at the moon above and gasped in sync with Miss Sharp's final breath. Those awful men ran off with her coin – they even took her shepherd's pie. All the while, Gray raced across the Derry landscape, moving faster than any mortal man could do. Though he hadn't moved fast enough and, in the end, he found his love lying flat on the wet earth, bleeding red through the center of that sky blue dress of hers.

Gray took Melody in his arms and shushed her as she choked. Blood bubbled from the corners of her mouth and he held her closer, knowing all too well when a human's death was near.

“R – Robert...” she'd managed to say.

“I'm here,” he croaked in reply, his once smooth voice changing under the duress of watching her die. As Melody's life slipped away, all the affection Gray had for her sunk downward, deep into a forgotten place where he locked away his (Its) sensitivities. Gray's affection was replaced with a heavy layer of malice and hatred for Derry. Hatred for the humans. Hatred for their children. Oh how... _how_... he would make them suffer. Make them scream. Make them into his food forever and always. They took her from him. Miss Sharp could have been the one to quell his urgency to always _consume_ – but not anymore.

Gray hugged Melody's limp, delicate body close and rocked her. He shuddered with grief so fiercely that he began to lose his form. Tendrils inched out from his spine as he arched forward, cradling his love. But... deep down... that affection still lingered. It was still there... somewhere... buried within a monster who wept into the night. Melody Sharp may have died, but her long lasting impression on Mister Robert “Bob” Gray never did.

 


	19. Burst Their Bubble

As Nuna's ship docked at the Nexus, she came to the realization how powerful both she and the clown truly were. The shuttle was disguised as virtually _unseen_ via Pennywise's psionic abilities, albeit temporarily until the two made off like fugitives, straying _just_ out of range. Once the craft coalesced back into visibility, Nexus security were on high alert.

As for the pair, they snuck through the streets and alleyways of the Nexus' main city hub and shapeshifted into two easily forgotten faces. From afar, they appeared almost blurry, genderless, and unremembered. Lost within the passing crowds, their images slipped from the minds of passersby.

In that time, Nuna arrived to an apartment building, making certain to remain out of sight. She turned to Pennywise and said, “This is where we split up. It's best to head into a war if you're well armed. I know these things, for I've fought many wars.” She nodded to the building adjacent to them. “There's a weapon cache hidden in a crawl space in my old apartment. I know _you_ have no use for weapons, so it would be a waste of time for you to accompany me.”

Pennywise, no longer looking anything like the clown, but instead sporting the slackened expression of a nondescript man with blondish-brown hair – or perhaps it was _brownish-blond?_ – perplexedly scrunched the brow of his human mask. “Where shall I go?” he asked in a voice that could only ever be good for something as mundane as announcing the weather.

“Travel onward to NERF HQ. Stay out of sight. Hide in your void if absolutely necessary.” Nuna paused a moment. “But... _please..._ find Lestat. Find him and free him.”

“And _you_?”

“I need to find my sister. I must eliminate her.” Nuna sighed. “I believe a bullet to the head _could_ end my sister, or at the very least incapacitate her until I find the Eye of Death.”

Pennywise sighed. His human face morphed a bit, as if it had begun to slip from his very skull, allowing the monster beneath to peek through. “Must I waste my time on that little... _bloodsucking_...”

“Please, Gray!” Nuna begged in a desperate whisper. She tugged on his shirt collar. “Lestat was my friend, too. I can't let her keep him locked up. He's a prisoner here, just as _we_ both are.”

“For _you,_ Nuna Shine,” growled the clown. With that, he reached for her hand and gave it an almost... _loving..._ squeeze, then turned and walked off into the crowd, ultimately heading into the direction of the NERF HQ.

Nuna watched him disappear into the mix of pedestrians bustling along the sidewalks. After he was fully out of sight, she made her way into the apartment building. She dropped her shapeshifted disguise in case nosy neighbors had been spying through their windows. If they saw _her_ , they'd think nothing of it. Nuna couldn't risk a phone call to security had they seen an unfamiliar prowler.

Hurrying to her door, she wrenched its knob to check if it was locked. The knob twisted with ease and the door swung open. Nuna's apartment had since been ransacked, it seemed. Chairs were flipped onto their sides, her clothing had been strewn across the carpeted flooring, drawers and doors and cabinets and closets were all ajar. Walking through the mess, she eyed what she could, trying to make sense of the disarray that filled her apartment. Much to Nuna's chagrin, the crawlspace had been revealed and the weapons within had long since been confiscated. Hell, whomever NERF sent to raid the apartment even went through Nuna's _purse_. Her bag had been tossed and dumped on the bed, its contents scattered. Credit cards, cash, keys, makeup – none of it had been taken. Her identification, NERF clearance badge, and Medallion of EL were _all_ , however, missing.

Then _something_ caught the operative's eye. It was among the items that had been inside her purse. A small, shiny sphere. Nuna picked it up and looked it over. The object was solid, heavy glass. A single red balloon – _as tall as a thimble_ – resided in its center. The item fit snugly into the palm of Nuna's hand. The cool weight of it felt... _comforting_.

_Gray gave this to me. He called it a 'carnival prize.' I'd almost forgotten..._

Someone gently rapped their knuckles across Nuna's open apartment door. Startled, she slipped the sphere into her pocket and whipped around. A familiar face looked back at her from the doorway.

“Mister Bates...” she said with a nod.

Norman had a remorseful look on his face. One might even call it a look of disappointment. “Ms. Shine, they sent the word out that you and that Rescue had returned. Our team has been scanning the area, but I volunteered to check back here.”

“I see.”

“I'm sorry to do this, Ms. Shine, but I have to take you in to HQ. Those are my orders.”

“Mister Bates...” she said, slowly raising her hands to show that she was unarmed, “please reconsider what you're doing. Dr. Fallengod... _she_...”

“I have my orders, Ms. Shine.” He approached Nuna and reached for her wrists. “I don't believe you have anything to really worry about,” he reassured her. “Dr. Fallengod said you're sick. She just wants to help you. You've served NERF well and you need treatment, obviously. It's alright, Nuna. You'll be in good hands.”

“Mister Bates, I know you think highly of Dr. Fallengod, but, _please..._ ” tears welled in Nuna's eyes as Norman secured a high tech pair of blinking cuffs around her wrists.

“I do, _indeed_ , think highly of her. Ms. Shine, _I_ was sick in the head for a very long time – longer than your young life, that's for sure. The doctor, well, she _cured_ me. She's a godsend. She really is. And she'll get your mind straight soon enough.” He gently escorted Nuna out of the apartment. She didn't attempt to put up a fight. The weapons cache was gone. NERF HQ was where the operative was headed next, anyhow. It appeared Nuna Shine was going to be walking right through the front door – in cuffs no less.

_Gray... please don't fail me..._

 

* * *

 

Nothing about Lestat's prison had changed in the last few weeks. The bars were still those clear, hard plastic kind and the lighting blazed down upon him in an almost blinding gleam. They never turned off the lights. _Never_. Though it was _false light,_ the vampire's strained eyes yearned for just a _touch_ of darkness. This must have been part of the slow torture – or whatever malicious plan _the three_ and Fallengod had in mind. Lestat hadn't a clue. He hadn't seen nor spoken to anyone in weeks. They knew he needed no real care. No food. No toileting. Nothing. The vampire had been abandoned to this shining, white purgatory. His stomach ached for the taste of blood, but he knew – and even _they_ knew – at his age, going without blood wasn't enough to _kill_ him. And thus, nothing changed. Lestat paced his confines from time to time, and spent many hours lying flat on his back on the cold, white floor. They hadn't even given him a bed. Not that vampires needed beds... but to be denied such a small thing... he knew they'd simply thought of him as an animal. Though even _animals_ are given beds.

It had been this way for hours on end, which turned into days, which became _weeks._ Weeks that slipped by about as slowly as one could imagine. Lestat knew exactly how much time had passed, in fact. His internal clock hadn't been human for a _long_ time. _He_ _knew – he always knew._

Then... something had _changed_.

It was a small thing, but it was everything. A single fly buzzed along the ceiling above. It flitted up and down like a miniscule yo-yo, bouncing its black body against the overhead glare of white. Lestat was lying flat on his back at this point in time, believe it or not. He saw the thing... way up there... and the way it moved... he could tell _it was trying to get his attention._

The vampire sat up, his chin cocked upward. “What is it? Who are you?” he whispered. _I'm mad,_ he thought.

 **No.** A voice replied in his head. This wasn't _his_ voice. It was gravelly and croaky. Familiar. **Little bloodsucker... you're not mad. This is exactly what it appears to be.**

“You!” Lestat shouted with a raised fist. He barred his teeth, glaring at the little bug.

**Keep it down, vampire. Put away those fangs. Stand up. She wants me to free you, and so this is what I've come to do.**

The fly buzzed downward, slipping into the holding cell, and materialized into Pennywise's full clown form. Lestat stood, maintaining a glare. With an impatient gesture of his elegant hand, he asked, “Well?! What's your _grand_ plan, fool?!” This was followed by a slur of obscene French pejoratives uttered under his breath.

The clown glared right back. Raising an index finger to the ceiling, he was about to inform the vampire that the _grand plan_ was to teleport back to the ship. **And let's hope nothing detrimental happens to that weak, little vampire body of yours – we wouldn't want you to explode as we soar through the pressure of the void! OR WOULD WE?**

The croaky voice rasped through Lestat's brain. The clown's lips hadn't moved. “I heard that!” He stamped his foot indignantly.

“Good,” said Pennywise, crossing his arms as he flashed a smug grin.

Lestat was about to rush upon the clown and grab him by those filthy ruffs around his neck, but something stopped the vampire. The floor beneath him began to rumble. The room vibrated and shook. He flashed a denunciatory look at Pennywise.

“It isn't _me!_ ” the clown barked. There was no lie in his yellow eyes. Something _else_ shook the white room.

As the vibrating grew stronger, it rattled up the walls, which seemed to split apart from one another at their corners. As the walls split, they fell, collapsing backward into a much larger, much darker, open space. The plastic bars which had surrounded Lestat and the clown sunk into the floor by way of some hidden mechanism below. A glass – or what looked like glass – containment dropped down from the ceiling, boxing Pennywise in where he stood. Looking up, the ceiling was no longer that low, white ceiling, but rather a tall, dark widespread roof, as grand as that of a massive warehouse. The clown stared out through the heavy glass interior of his new cage and watched armed NERF operatives tase, and subsequently haul _,_ Lestat away. As his heels dragged across the floor, they pulled the vampire onto a far off bed with restraints. Then, they strapped him down with little resistance from the unconscious bloodsucker. Pennywise realized there hadn't been just _one_ bed, but two. Beside Lestat was Nuna Shine, also strapped down. Her eyes, however, were wide open. Luckily, she was still conscious.

 **Enough of _this_. **The clown attempted to warp out of there with the intent to flee to his void. There he could conjure a plan to liberate Nuna and Lestat from their current predicament. As Pennywise attempted to do so, some kind of _force_ stopped him. It was like a _barrier,_ something composed of an unseen energy, and strong enough to keep this eldritch creature stationary. He felt it fluctuate against him, sometimes weaker, sometimes stronger, but all the while this energy kept _some_ part of the clown or another from fully transitioning away to the void.

“And _there_ you are...” said a voice. “I knew the vampire would serve well as bait.”

Pennywise whipped around in his box. Staring back at him was the victorious smirk of Dr. Fallengod. She clutched her clipboard to her chest, pacing around the exterior perimeter of the clown's confines. Pennywise paced along with her, locking both of his glowing, abyssal eyes onto the _good_ doctor. 

“We know who you are,” Pennywise said to Dr. Fallengod. “You're no _doctor_ , miss!” The clown chuckled. “You're Nuna Shine's _rotten old sister!_ ” His chuckling died down and a sinister grin spread across his pallid face. In a wicked whisper, he added, “You _stole_ that skin in which you walk!”

Meanwhile, Nuna quickly turned her head to the left. Looking over, she saw the unconscious face of Lestat looking back at her. His eyes were closed and his forehead and mouth were frozen in a _strained_ expression. The vampire's cheeks began to twitch as consciousness slowly returned to him. “Lestat!” she whispered, albeit loudly.

With a sudden intake of breath, the vampire's piercing blue eyes popped open. His body jerked forward and the bed restraints jerked him right back down.

“And who are you, _Mister Robert_ _Gray_?” Dr. Fallengod asked Pennywise. “Didn't you do the same as I?” She gestured to his physique. “You stole _that_ skin. You took Bob Gray's life, his work, his very face! You manufactured an identity for yourself so that you wouldn't just be an invisible, floating _firefly!_ ”

A research assistant approached Dr. Fallengod and informed her that the machine only had so many minutes left to hold the _entity._ “Doctor, we need to prep for the mind wipe.”

Fallengod nodded, giving the assistant the go ahead to begin.

Nuna overheard. “Lestat! Wake up! They're going to erase his memories and send him back to Derry! We need to do something!”

Pennywise yelled back at the doctor, “I have no memory of such a thing! _That_ never happened in my narrative!” As he argued, a thought occurred to the clown which hadn't occurred before - there was something _peculiar_ about the way Fallengod held onto that clipboard, like it was some kind of _security_ blanket.

The doctor laughed. Then she snapped, “Oh no, of course it didn't in _your_ narrative. It wasn't explicitly written, but all the hints were there!"

“Mere speculation,” grunted the clown. “You speak nonsense.”

“ _You_ introduced yourself to the _child_ as Bob Gray,” Fallengod argued. “You shapeshifted into the old woman, Mrs. Kersh, and insisted Gray was your _father._ My dear fool, what else is there to speculate? You stole that face just as well as I stole my own!”

“Lies!” said Pennywise. He saw the doctor's fingers clutching _tighter_ to that clipboard. So tight that her nails dug in. Even though Fallengod effectively kept the clown's telepathic probing at bay, he easily read her body language. She'd been guarding... _something_. His voice lowered. “That never happened...”

“Ah,” said Fallengod, “but the _readers_ believed it did. And now... it _has._ ”

The clown's face scrunched upward with disgust. Waving a dismissive hand, he said, “ _So_ what? They're irrelevant! _Idiots_. They are _not_ the narrator.”

Dr. Fallengod laughed. “Fool. You're so... _young._ Such a young story you are. You have no concept as to how legends are born – as to how _gods_ are made. You don't think someone, _somewhere,_ told a fabrication about me or my sister? Perhaps later, someone else heard it and _wrote it down?_ And over the centuries that fabrication blossomed into further speculation, rumors ... _side_ narratives? A child wrote about us in the sand and then the tide washed it away. And so, that child wrote about us again, this time longer, more elaborate, but with a different ending – and they read it aloud to their peers before the tide came in. _That_ is how a story becomes legend. _That_ is what evolves a mere character into a _god._ Something old. Something that changes through the generations. Something that demands _shrines_ built in its name – to be worshiped for _centuries_ by cults and priests and holy folk alike! Whether we are the good or the bad characters, we become _strong!_ ”

At the behest of Nuna, Lestat pushed against his straps with all his inhuman strength, but no luck. “I'm _trying_ , Ch _ér_ ie. I really am.”

She pushed against her own restraints with little luck, as well. A god of war... a queen... yet her sister was still able to render her powerless. Some things never changed.

 **Nuna Shine.** A voice spoke in her mind. She looked over to see Pennywise closely engaged in an argument with Dr. Fallengod. **The clipboard. I believe what you seek is hidden within. It bears an aluminum case with a hinge.**

Pennywise scowled at Fallengod. “I've made my _own_ identity now. I'm out of the narrative. There is _no_ legend of me...” As the clown debated with the doctor, he realized that even though he could not teleport through this unseen energy force generated by whatever invention she and her crew manufactured, his infernal mind _was_ able to wiggle its way through _just enough_ to loosen the straps that restrained both Lestat and Nuna. Meanwhile, Fallengod's staff scurried about as the contraption surrounding Pennywise hummed. It was _warming up._

“Yes,” nodded Fallengod. “There will be no further legend of you. You'll be going back to your narrative. There's nothing further that can be done with you. You are incapable of creating your own identity – your own life. Like any monster, you're utterly dependent on your narrative. You see, I understand all too well that villains are _undesirable._ I'm much more evolved than you, however. I've broken through that glass ceiling, whereas you've _failed_. I'm the hero now. On this planet... this Nexus. You? You will never be the hero. You will never be a god. You will never be a willful boy with a stutter.” Fallengod set the clipboard down on a table not far from where she stood. Then she approached the clown with merely a clear pane of glass between them. “Forever hated. Forever _the thing that lives below._ I will send you back to your familiarity. The villain beneath the ground. The unfit one. Do you really believe that you could have ever been _saved? Rescued?_ You are a monster. That is all you will ever be. A monster with an ugly name, an ugly face, and an even uglier story. You will never be loved.”

Nuna and Lestat slipped out of their restraints and crawled off the beds. Too much was going on over to the far side of the laboratory for either Fallengod or her staff to take notice. She and the vampire inched closer through the commotion of it all. Nuna kept her eyes fixed on the clipboard which now sat on a table just thirty feet away. The longer Pennywise kept the doctor focused on _him_ , the better their chances. “Leave Fallengod to _me_ ,” she whispered to Lestat. “Do you think you can take down the others?”

He smirked. “Have you seen how _swiftly_ a vampire moves, Ch _ér_ ie?”

Pennywise kept his eyes locked with Fallengod's. All the while, he sported a wide, toothy grin and pushed himself so close to the glass that his red nose comically pressed against it. The clown's rough voice, only slightly muffled from the other side, spoke with cutting sincerity. “Your _sister_ loves me. And for all my wickedness... I love her. To add, good doctor, she loves me _oh so much_ _more_ than she will ever love the likes of _you._ ”

Fallengod's eyes hardened as she crossed her arms and turned away from the clown. Speaking to her team who hustled about, she declared, “Wipe Its mind! Send It back!” Her voice wavered angrily. “Erase all coordinates to Its narrative world from the computer system. I never want to see It again. Bury It.” As Fallengod issued her orders, the lights above flickered and spun just as they were designed to do.

Pennywise felt himself lifting from his feet, but it was not by his own accord. The eldritch creature knew all too well that he was no longer in control of his own form. The energy field around him pressurized more heavily, pushing in on him in a crushing sort of way. A flood of blackness washed into his immeasurable consciousness, pushing away his memories, storing them down deep in a place of which even the clown was unaware.

“Now!” Nuna commanded Lestat. She sprinted for the clipboard on the table.

Meanwhile, Lestat ran with the speed of something beyond all human comprehension, zipping invisibly from operative to operative, breaking necks and slashing throats. For all his speed, however, he hadn't reached the one assistant who engaged the lever on the main console. This was the lever intended to return Pennywise to his narrative world without the need for a ship. By the time the vampire reached _this particular_ staff member, and proceeded to bite down into their flesh, tearing their jugular from the snug little tissue in which it was grown, the lever had already been pulled and the clown had already disappeared from his glass confinement – nowhere to be seen.

Nuna snatched up the clipboard, but screamed in protest as she watched Pennywise dematerialize into nothing, knowing full well that Fallengod – _Ereshkigal_ – succeeded in destroying _**Its**_ memories of Nuna, sending _**It**_ back to whence it came. _Back to Derry..._

Fallengod whirled around, no longer committed to maintaining the illusion of the doctor. Her form shifted and she morphed into the likeness of Ereshkigal – a tall and dark haired being with black wings that spanned almost the entire space of the room in which she faced her sister. Her eyes glowed white, almost blindingly, and she'd been adorned in black armor, littered with the bones of the dead. “You think _you_ can fight me, sister?” Her voice boomed with an ethereal reverberation.

“Perhaps I can't...” replied Nuna. “Not alone.” She slammed the clipboard to the floor, breaking the hinge from its aluminum backing. It popped away and a black orb with a starry glint rolled out. Nuna picked it up and looked it over with haste. _The Eye of Death._ Her sister kept it close _all these years_.

“Sister!” screamed Ereshkigal. “Give that to me. _You_ don't know how to use it properly!”

Nuna's face darkened. “Oh _yes I do_ , sister.” She clenched her teeth as she raised the orb above her head. “I've seen how you've used it. I've felt how you've used it! Again and again **and again**... _on me!_ ”

Lestat pounced on Ereshkigal, latching his teeth hard at her neck. With her black wings flapping furiously, creating a swirl of air, the Queen of the Dead gripped at his blond hair, trying to wrench him from her. Her efforts proved to be of no use. The vampire had a jaw that, when need be, locked down _hard_. To his misfortune, however, Ereshkigal's godly blood filled his mouth, and the taste of it was unbearable. Lestat wanted to pull away – to wretch and to vomit – but, in spite of this, he kept his bite strong.

Nuna walked up to Ereshkigal as she struggled with the vampire at her throat. She leaned close to her sister's ear, whispered, “ _Burst their bubble..._ ” and planted the starriest side of the black orb flat against the Queen of the Dead's forehead. Ereshkigal screamed and wailed, her silky skin wrinkled and blackened. Lestat released himself from her and dropped to the floor, writhing from the sickness of her veins that filled his throat. The Queen of the Dead shrunk downward, like the wicked witch doused in water. Her wings withered and flitted away in a waft of loose, black feathers. Her skin and muscle and bones slumped into a dead, meaty mass on the ground. She was no longer whole... no longer a god.

The Eye of Death had claimed her.

 

 

 


	20. At Rest

The cool air blew across the city park, whisking the dry autumn leaves up and scattering them about the arid grass. Nuna sat on a park bench, staring at the number programmed into her mobile phone. Over a year had passed since the death of her sister. Thirteen months to be precise. Those months came and went since she and Lestat hijacked a shuttle and fled from the Nexus. They took off to the only place that made sense: the Blue Planet. Earth. The _real_ world.

In that time, for a brief period, the two of them laid low. It was imperative to avoid any contact that NERF would have possibly made. They'd settled in one region of the world, then moved on to the next. Today it had been Asia, tomorrow it became Europe. They hit up every major continent, burning through every false identity, meandering through a world much bigger than the ones they'd known.

It hadn't been until six months into their escape that Lestat convinced Nuna to return to the shuttle. The vampire wanted to follow the coordinates to his own narrative world. He had no intention of returning to his narrative, but rather to liberate Louis. _Louis de Pointe du Lac._ Lestat wanted to bring him back to the Blue Planet... and so... they set out and did just that.

As they did so, Nuna used that opportunity to mask their signal and figuratively “peek” in on Nexus transmissions. _Call it curiosity_ , she'd told Lestat. He argued that it was a bad idea, nonetheless, NERF never did detect them. From what she could gather, she and Lestat were still considered “at large”, but no longer a priority. _The three_ had been charged and imprisoned for using NERF resources to conspire war against the Blue Planet. Their crimes had undermined the entire philosophy and social infrastructure of the Nexus, itself.

Mister Bates was now fully in charge of NERF HQ.

Nuna had also attempted to debug the system, searching for old cache files which possibly held the coordinates to Derry. No such luck. Fallengod had her staff wipe it clean. Backup files, temporary files – everything. Gone. Nuna was crushed.

In better news, she and Lestat successfully freed Louis from his narrative. It took much convincing just to get him to approach the shuttle. However, with time, the two vampires made their way back to the Blue Planet and retired themselves to a quiet life in France. The _real_ France. Paris. Lestat wanted Nuna to remain with them, but in the long run she couldn't. She moved from Europe to the United States, heading for the upper east coast – New England. Nuna settled in Bangor, Maine, the real life counterpart to Derry... the place from which Pennywise had come.

There, she kept to herself for many months. Nuna read and re-read the clown's story after securing a copy of it ( _It_ ) from the local bookstore. She'd endeavored to find a way to see the creature again. She thought, perhaps, the book held a buried secret, but from what she'd found... it didn't. All it held were horrific musings, detailing Gray's macabre deeds and the terrible things each of the humans from his narrative had done beyond his influence. Some of the human characters proved to be even more monstrous than the titular monster, itself. Nuna wasted away hours and days, pouring over every word. Her search went nowhere.

And now... she found herself sitting on a park bench, staring at the cell phone in her hand. The number was a Paris number. It had been time to check in with Lestat. Nuna pressed the “call” button.

“Bonjour Ch _ér_ ie,” he answered.

“Lestat... _hello_...” her voice trailed off.

“Are you well?”

“That's a loaded question,” she remarked. “How are things on the other side of the Blue Planet?”

“Calm as usual. We're still in our flat. Louis is like a child discovering the world all over again.”

Nuna went silent.

“Do you still think of _him?_ ”

….

“Ch _ér_ ie?”

“Yes.”

The vampire sighed. “I could take another look at the craft's navigation array. You have the shuttle in the states. We would have to rendezvous, but I could check it over. It used to be my job you kno--”

“He's gone, Lestat. I've looked again and again. Those coordinates are gone. _He_ is gone.”

“ _It_ is gone.”

“He... It... _Gray_ is gone.”

Lestat put down the phone and muttered something, likely to Louis who had been asking if Nuna was on the other line. With a loud shuffle, he brought the phone back up to his ear. “I must ask...”

Nuna sighed. “Go on...”

“What would you do with him once you found him? Bring him here? To the Blue Planet?”

…..

“Ch _ér_ ie, the creature was written to be an _eater of worlds_. Even Louis and I must pick off a human or two to sustain our hunger. We're far more selective about who is deserving of such a fate, and far more conservative with the numbers by which we consume. But _him_... _It_... a creature with an appetite of that magnitude...”

“Gray wouldn't be selective,” confessed Nuna. “I know.”

“If you found him, you wouldn't be coming back, would you?”

Nuna paused, her hand gripped the phone harder, drawing it closer to her ear. “No,” her warm breath hit the screen and bounced back onto her lips. “Probably not.” She checked the time. It was getting close to 1 PM. It must have been 7 PM, Paris' time. “I have to go,” she added. “There's somewhere I need to be.”

“Take care of yourself, Ch _ér_ ie.”

“I will. You do the same. Tell Louis _hello_.” Nuna hung up. She stood. Walking across the park grounds, she headed into the direction of Bangor's local library, carrying in hand the only book she'd ever read. There was a signing scheduled today at 1 PM. Stephen King, the author and local celebrity, was distributing autographs. When she'd first read about the event, Nuna wasn't sure why she cared. Why would she even want to meet this man? But then she realized that she wanted to look him in the eyes – the one who had created Gray. Perhaps there was a clue... a hint. _Something._ Something that would show her how to navigate the Skein and free the creature. She had no coordinates. She had nothing to go on. It was a lofty hope, in any case.

After entering the library, Nuna stood in a long line. She waited and waited – for over an hour, in fact – until she was finally able to shuffle forward to a small folding table lined with stacks of the writer's newest book. Nuna looked at the man...this _narrator._ The narrator of a lost narrative she suffered to rediscover. If only he knew... would he have believed such a tale? Nothing about it was outside the realm of _his_ imagination, but still...

_Humans are fickle creatures._

“Hi!” He greeted Nuna in a somewhat _nasally_ voice. “And who am I making the this out to?” The author reached out a hand to take her book. She gave it to him.

King glanced at the title and smirked. “One of my better ones, isn't it?” His voice dropped, putting on a wild Pennywise impression. “We  _all_ float down here!” The author chuckled. He did so awkwardly, in fact. Nuna sensed he was a bit of an awkward guy. “So,” King cleared his throat, “what's the name?”

“Nuna,” she muttered, realizing this endeavor was a dead end. “Nuna Shine.”

“Nuna Shine, eh?” He smiled and flipped open the book. As the writer scribbled some message or another, without looking up, he asked, “So who's your favorite character?”

Never having considered the question before, Nuna scrunched her face a little. In spite of her attempt to contemplate the query, her answer was obvious. “The monster,” she replied. “ _It_ is my favorite character.”

King shook his head and chuckled, still writing. “You'd be surprised how many fans say that.” With the insightful lift of an eyebrow, he continued, “You know what's the most interesting fact about the _clown_ , Nuna? I tell this to some of my fans that seem to favor him...”

“What?”

“Well,” said King, “in most stories the protagonists experience a turning point somewhere in the thick of things. Typically near the middle of the book. But no one ever thinks about the turning point for the antagonist, do they? In _this_ story, It – in the clown's form – experiences a turning point right at the _beginning_ of the novel. And _without the clown's turning point_ , well, there'd be _no_ story!”

Nuna's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? What turning point?”

The writer finished his autograph and handed back the book. “Georgie of course,” he said. “Had Pennywise never messed with the _wrong kid –_ or the wrong's kid's _brother_ I should say – then there'd be no plot. _Georgie_ was a turning point for the monster.” He laughed. “That kid _ruined_ him!”

Nuna took the book and thanked the author. She'd never before considered what he'd just said. As she exited the library, she looked down at the autograph etched inside of the novel. It read: “To Nuna Shine, may a little part of Pennywise the Dancing Clown be with you always!” Next to the autograph, he'd doodled a balloon.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Nuna settled into bed. She felt more tired than usual. For someone as godly as she, even _her_ muscles ached from time to time. Had to hand it to her own creators for taking a deity – a cosmically powerful being – and reducing it to human form, able to succumb to human sensations. _Pagans_. All their gods were nothing more than reflections of their own corporeal selves. As self righteous as the monotheists were, _they_ knew how to fabricate a _god._ It was all powerful, everywhere at once, all knowing. Their god was unfathomable. It's power was derived from The Unknown. _Their_ god was like... a _monster_.

There was a time upon Nuna's arrival to the Blue Planet when she visited the ancient lands from whence her story was conceived. But those lands were no longer what they once were. New civilizations arose, painted by new borders, flying unfamiliar flags. Those monotheistic religions took over with a much more powerful god – a god who wiped out the faces and names of the pantheon from which Nuna was born. Her experience had felt empty. And so, she'd left those lands, accompanying Lestat into western Europe. And when Nuna had grown tired of watching him and Louis dote upon one another, she stole away to the states, living in a familiarly depressing one bedroom apartment with a kitchen the size of a broom closet and a bed about as narrow as the broom, itself.

Nuna set down her book on the nightstand. She sat on the edge of her little bed. Reaching over, she flipped the book back open to the autographed page and reread the author's words. _To Nuna Shine, may a little part of Pennywise the Dancing Clown be with you always!_ As she proceeded to close the book, her eyes fixed on the doodle of the balloon. It was cartoony and small. Just a tiny doodle. Little. No bigger...

...than...

...the size of...

_A thimble._

 

* * *

 

It was now 6 AM in Paris. The sun was on the verge of rising and Lestat de Lioncourt was about to put himself to rest. He thought of it that way – putting one's self _to_ _rest._ It wasn't the same as _going to sleep._ Going to sleep was too human of a thing to do. No. Admittedly, he and Louis slept in beds, but they weren't sleeping as mortals slept. They were _resting._

_People sleep._

_Monsters rest._

As Lestat prepped his bedding, his phone lit up, buzzing tenaciously against the surface of the wooden nightstand. He picked it up and tapped the touch screen's green button. “Ch _ér_ ie?”

“I need your authorization to unlock the navigation controls in the shuttle craft.”

“What's all this about?”

“I'm testing a … _theory_. It's rudimentary but it's all I've got. Navigation will have to be manually performed. No coordinates. No autopilot. But I don't have the access code. You still do.”

“Nuna,” sighed Lestat, “it's _late._ ”

“It's noon.”

“It's time to sleep.” Lestat paused, tilting his head as he pressed the phone to his cheek. “Have _you_ slept?”

“I'm no mortal.”

“You still need rest.”

Nuna grunted. “Don't do this to me. Don't hold out. Lestat... _please_. Give me the code.”

“And this is all based on a hunch?”

She drew a short breath through her nose. “Yes,” she huffed.

“Where are you now?”

“In the shuttle. I'm ready when you are. _Please_...” She could hear the vampire exhale in frustration on the other end. If Nuna hadn't known him any better, she could _just see_ Lestat raising a hand to his brow, woefully massaging his pallid forehead.

“Beta... three... five... alpha... _dash..._ eleven.” The vampire heard her fingers tap away at the console. “Are you at least somewhere _covert_? Where is the shuttle docked?”

“I'm in the woods,” she reassured him. “Maine is practically _all woods_ , if I'm to be honest...”

Her console beeped affirmatively over the phone. It was so loud that Lestat had to momentarily pull the phone away from his ear. “ _Ch_ _ér_ _ie_...” he insisted, “I must get to bed.” He pressed his lips together and sighed. “Good luck, my friend.”

“Goodbye, Lestat.” Nuna ended her call, tossing the phone to the shuttle's floor. Fishing around in her tote bag, she withdrew the glass sphere with the red balloon and eyed it over. “This was part of you.”

As the craft lifted, hauling itself above the trees, then higher, above the clouds, Nuna watched the bauble for any signs of change. The shuttle continued lifting, higher and higher. Once she was outside of the atmosphere, Nuna engaged _light_ thrusters and began to arbitrarily travel in any which direction. Resting on the console, the glass sphere seemed unchanged. It wasn't until after exactly _nineteen_ minutes, after Nuna had changed course to a different direction, that it _flickered._

Taking cue from the sphere, she narrowed her direction and pursued it further. The flicker illuminated to a dim orange glow. “You _do_ know where the rest of yourself is, _don't_ you?” Nuna charged the thrusters to a stronger output. “Let's see how bright that light of yours can _shine_...”

The shuttle sped off into the winding depths of the Skein.

 

* * *

 

The wind blew almost sideways, splashing the rainwater clean across the windshields of passing cars. Their wipers furiously flipped back and forth to maintain a clear line of sight for the drivers within. Regardless, this downpour was blindingly torrential. Buckets and sheets of rain filled the streets, creating a series of mini rivers up and down the roadways. Rain sprayed across the pavement, carried by a turbulent wind, and all around was the uninterrupted white noise of its impact with the ground. Trees bent and swayed. Flags wetly flapped against their posts. Today wasn't the day to go outside... _unless_ one was looking for just the right inclement weather to _sail a paper boat._

And on this day, that's _just_ what set George Denbrough apart from everyone else in Derry. His older brother, Bill, had applied the finishing touches to his boat, _the S.S. Georgie_ – wax and all. The little boy hurried to put on his galoshes and yellow rain slicker, rushing past the piano room where his mother played Für Elise, and dashed out the door into the wild, wet streets.

Georgie was ready to set sail.

He dropped the paper boat into a frenzied _whoosh_ of street water and gleefully chased after her as she bobbed and twirled with the ebb and flow of the current. Georgie whooped and hollered, he even cursed a little in his excitement, but boy there was nothing quite like the exhilaration of watching that boat take off. Could anyone have blamed him?

The S.S. Georgie sailed past driveways and fire hydrants, sidewalks and saw horses. Georgie was so giddy that he'd even slipped and fallen a few times. That boat... that little paper boat... she sped along faster and faster, almost as if _something pulled her_ much more nimbly than the water, itself. Something enticing Georgie to follow her ever closer.

He had fun alright, smiling and shouting and splashing his way down the street. It wasn't until Georgie spied the sewer opening just ahead that his glee turned to dread. The boy's excited shouts turned to protests, demanding the boat to _stop_. The very idea that she would be lost _forever_ in the sewer absolutely crushed him. Bill had painstakingly constructed the boat _just for him._ If that boat was lost then Georgie's fun for the day was over _._

Sure enough, amid the boisterous downpour and the boy's deafening objections, the paper boat defiantly sailed _right into that damned sewer._ Panicked _,_ Georgie picked up his speed. He raced ever closer to the sewer's opening.

Closer...

 _Closer_...

He was almost there –

“Hey!” someone yelled from behind. A hand grabbed the back of his slicker and whipped the boy around. “Georgie!”

Georgie looked up and saw the face of a woman, her dark hair soaked, wetly draped against her olive cheeks. She glared at him with intense eyes. “Stay _away_ from the sewer!” Her voice was authoritative. Direct. _Angry_.

“But my – my _boat_!” He began to cry. This lady was holding onto him _too_ tight. Georgie tried to wriggle free but her fingers dug hard into his arms, keeping him cemented in place.

“Don't you ever go near the sewers, Georgie!” How had she known his name? There was something _wrong_ about this woman. It was as if she didn't belong here. There was something... _scary..._ about her.

“Let me go!” he yelled.

“If you go near the sewers,” she said, jerking the boy closer to her face, “then you'll _die_. Do you hear me? You'll die, Georgie. You'll be dead. _Dead!_ ” She drew a deep breath and screamed into his terrified face, “ _Do you fucking understand me?”_

Georgie cried harder. Why was this woman being so mean to him? He hadn't done anything wrong. All he wanted was his boat. She didn't want him near the sewers? He was going to die? What was wrong with this woman? Was _she_ going to … _kill_ him?

Her grip loosened. Her voice softened a bit. “Here...” she said. The woman reached into her tote, withdrawing a plastic freezer bag. Inside of it was the shiniest, reddest race car George ever did see. It even had a remote control. “This will move over tile, carpet, grass, you name it. But don't ever drive it near the sewers. Take it.”

Georgie stared at the plastic wrapped car. This lady was mean. She was scary. He shouldn't be taking things from strangers like her.

“Take it!” She shoved the car into his arms. “Don't you ever come back here!”

Georgie's tears worsened. He was sobbing. Nodding, but sobbing.

“Now get out!” She pointed away from the sewer, back toward his home. “Go _away_ Georgie! Go away, _forever_!”

With tears camouflaged by the rain itself, he ran off. Georgie didn't know it, but for the first time in his brief, little existence... he was going to live.

 

* * *

 

The rain suddenly let up and the sun came out. It happened so fast that it was unrealistic, thought Nuna. _As if this place had been real anyway_. She stood in the middle of the street, waiting until Georgie was entirely out of sight. Any minute now he was about to go racing into Bill Denbrough's room, telling his brother all about the horrible woman he'd met, presenting Big Bill with the red race car. Georgie will have dinner tonight with his family. He will wake up tomorrow with the coo of the mourning dove just outside his bedroom window. He will continue to live out the next day, and the next, and the rest of the week... the month... and so on.

As long as _this_ turning point never happened, as long as George Denbrough does not die, the monster will no longer be hunted by the Losers Club. Nuna wondered if this affected the story, itself, on the Blue Planet. Likely not. Events in the Skein never did seem to work backwards like that.

As soon as the boy was gone, Nuna turned toward the sewer opening. Approaching it cautiously, she knelt down on pavement that had already dried up from the _all-too-sudden_ sun. Darkness stared back at her. Leaning her head down a bit more, she peered closer and said, “I know you're in there. Georgie isn't coming today.”

Two yellow eyes stepped forward from the dank, surrounding pitch. The clown glared up at Nuna, his eyes hungrily searching her face, but also scanning for familiarity with this woman. They found none. With a hateful grin, he said, “ _You_... interrupted my meal.”

Nuna's brow dropped. She pursed her lips, sighing through her nose. Shaking her head she said, “You don't remember me at all, do you?”

Unspoken, Pennywise continued to glare upward.

Nuna placed the glass sphere with the balloon on the pavement – just within the clown's reach. It brightly glowed orange. “ _This_ is yours,” she declared. “You gave it to me. We were... we _are_... _friends._ I call you Gray.”

Pennywise's wicked eyes narrowed on the bauble, then glanced at Nuna, then back to the sphere. “Your thoughts...” he stammered. “You have _thoughts_ of me which I _know_ have never occurred. Nuna Shine. Your name is Nuna Shine. I have _never_ known you.”

“Oh, but you _have_ known me,” she nodded. “Probe my mind all you like, Gray. You'll never fully remember me without _this_.” Nuna gestured to the sphere.

He continued to stare at it. “It holds the _Lights_...”

“Yes it does.” She paused. “It is you. A piece of you.”

The sphere lifted from the ground and floated in place, hovering like a hummingbird at a feeder. The clown drew it toward himself through the black mouth of the sewer. Once it drifted into his gloved hand, the object quickly dematerialized, reabsorbing into his being.

Nuna watched and waited. “Does it hurt?” she asked.

“No,” he answered. Pennywise shook his head as if he changed his mind. “A _little_ ,” he clarified. The clown approached the sewer opening a bit closer and looked at Nuna with new eyes. Different eyes. Their color was the same, but their expression had softened. “You...” he whispered against the concrete at level with his lips. “I... _do..._ remember you... Nuna Shine. _Inanna_.”

He disappeared from Nuna's sight, but within that same instance she felt a firm hand on her shoulder. Turning around, the clown had teleported above ground, crouching beside her in the street.

“Are you ready to leave Derry?” she asked.

Pennywise nodded. “I am ready for a long rest.” He looked upward at the blue sky above, now _knowing_ what was out there. Now understanding how false his world was. “The Void is where I must rest.”

“Gray,” Nuna turned toward him. “I could rest, too.”

Pennywise nodded. “There is always room for you, Nuna Shine.” He took her hand and stood. She stood along with him. “Let us go. Let us not rest alone.”

The End

 


End file.
